J...UH      Jgf~--- 


of 


Cincinnati :  Jennings  and 
gorft:  €aton  and 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
JENNINGS  AND  PYE 


Like  mists  that  round  a  mountain  gray 
Hang  for  an  hour,  then  melt  away, 
So  I  and  nearly  all  my  race 
Have  vanished  from  my  native  place. 

Each  haunt  of  boyhood's  loves  and  dreams 
More  beautiful  in  fancy  seems; 
Yet  if  I  to  those  scenes  repair, 
I  find  I  am  a  stranger  there. 

0  thou  beloved  Acadie! 

How,  whensoe'er  I  think  of  thee, 

Dull  grow  these  skies  'neath  which  I  range, 

While  all  the  summer  hills  are  strange. 

Yet  sometimes  I  discern  thy  gleam 
In  sparkles  of  the  chiming  stream; 
And  sometimes  speaks  thy  haunting  lore 
The  foam-wreathed  Sibyl  of  the  Shore. 

And  sometimes  will  mine  eyes  incline 
To  hill  or  wood  that  seems  like  thine; 
Or,  if  the  robin  pipeth  clear, 
It  is  thy  vernal  note  I  hear. 

And  oft  my  heart  will  leap  aflame, 
To  deem  I  hear  thee  call  my  name, — 
To  see  thy  face  with  gladness  shine, 
And  find  the  joy  that  once  was  mine. 
5 


2136781 


Contents 


MEMORY  AND  BELLS,               ....  ^ 

'  PHEMIE  ;  THE  STORY  OF  A  CHILD,    -        -       -  53 

VERNAL  NOTES, 87 

THE  MINISTER'S  SATURDAY  EVENING  ; 

A  SYMPOSIUM,    -                                 -        -        -  142 

WINTER  ON  THE  PENOBSCOT,  -  188 

OUR  DOCTOR  AT  GRAND-PRE,      -       -       -       -  222 

THE  GRACE  OF  DEATH, 244 

WAVE-SONGS, 274 

AUTUMNAL  NOTES, 301 

L'ENVOY, 385 


and  I3ell& 


i. 


"Across  the  dykes  the  bell's  low  sound  is  borne 
From  green  Grand  Pre,  abundant  with  the  corn." 
— John  Frederick  Herbin. 

"  'T  is  sweet  to  hear  a  brook;  't  is  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath  bell ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once, 
Deep  in  a  woody  dell." 

— Coleridge. 

I  THOUGHT,  to-day,  while  the  musical  moni 
tor,  hanging  in  its  tower  near  by,  was  "sprink 
ling  the  air  with  holy  sounds,"  and  the  vil 
lagers  were  entering  the  sacred  porch,  how — 
when  a  boy  in  my  father's  house — I  used  to 
hear  on  Sabbath  mornings  the  distant  ringing 
of  church  bells  among  the  Horton  hills,  sound 
ing  when  the  air  was  quiet,  or  when  a  favor 
ing  wind 

"Scattered  the  tuneful  largess  far  and  near." 
9 


io  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Distant  chimes  are  they  now,  heard  onty  in 
memory !  Ah,  how  soon,  in  spite  of  cares  and 
years,  when  the  Magician  of  our  Youth  re 
turns,  touching  us,  we  are  children  again ! 
Surely  some  spirit  within  me  held  the  invisible 
cord,  pulling  at  the  Bells  of  Memory ! 


II. 

"How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet !     Now  dying  all  away, 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 
Clear  and  sonorous  as  the  gale  comes  on. 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  memory  slept." 

Can  we  ever  hear  the  sound  of  bells  at  even 
ing,  softening  over  meadows  and  streams,  nor 
think  of  the  Saint  of  Olney, — renewing  that 
glimpse,  had  long  ago,  of 

"The  embattled  tower 
Whence  all  the  music?" 

His  memory  animates  my  thought  and  prompts 
this  reverie.  Among  all  the  chimes  struck  by 
the  singers  of  England,  none  touch  the  inner 
most  strings  of  life  more  deftly  than  those 


Memory  and  Bells.  n 

heard  at  Berkhampstead  by  childish  ears. 
Again  we  melt  to  the  pathos  of  the  lines : 

"I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu." 

Who  that  loves  Cowper  (and  many  there  still 
are,  we  hope,  to  love  him,  for  we  know  of 
none  who  in  his  best  mood  appeals  more 
sweetly  to  the  heart)  has  not  listened  to  the 
melody  floating  to  his  ear  long  ago  from  Ol- 
ney  tower? — 

"Tall  spire  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear." 

III. 

And  who  was  he  who  first  struck  the  solemn 
chime  ?  He  surely  wanted  a  music  that  should 
no  longer  linger  and  die  alone  among  hollow 
vales  and  low  birthplaces,  but  salute  heaven 
with  its  winged  echoes,  and,  stealing  softly 
back,  waft  our  aspirations  thither.  Perpetual 
benison  to  the  head  of  the  good  Campanian 
bishop,  Paulinias,  or  whoever  he  was,  who  first 
swung  from  its  tower  the  inverted  cup  of  brass 
or  iron,  with  its  jubilant  clamor, — express 


12  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

image  of  the  lowly  flower-bell,  drooped  so 
modestly,  that  "tolls  its  perfume  on  the  pass 
ing  air."  It  was  a  goodly  invention,  of  noble 
use  and  high  delight,  that  hath  consecration 
of  melody  above  the  sobbing  murmurs  of  a 
desolate  world.  I  marvel  not  at  the  legends, 
like  summer  mists  creeping  into  the  turrets  of 
the  bells,  and  hanging  them  as  with  a  gray 
veil,  that  their  notes  were  once  made  the 
sweeter  by  the  infusion  of  the  martyr-maiden's 
holy  blood;  that  to  them  were  assigned  the 
functions,  not  only  of  calling  the  living  and 
bemoaning  the  dead,  but  of  breaking  the  light 
ning  in  pieces  and  contending  for  mastery  with 
the  spirits  of  the  storm. 

IV. 

The  bell  of  the  Moslem  is  the  tongue  of  the 
muezzin,  as  from  the  tower  of  his  mosque  he 
summons  the  devout  to  his  monotonous  prayer. 
More  appealing  are  the  inaudible  notes  of  the 
Angelus  stealing  out  of  Millet's  picture :  for 
we  feel  there  is  indeed  one  God,  and  that  all 
ought  to  worship  him.  O  the  bells !  the  bells  ! 
and  the  notes  stealing  down  from  them! 
Spell-giving  sounds  are  they,  that  take  hold 
of  masterful  spirits,  and  sway  them  as  wind 


Memory  and  Bells.  13 

sways  the  corn.  Not  Napoleon  alone  pauses, 
as  he  attains  the  life-summit  of  some  Alp,  to 
take  the  message  of  some  vocal  vale.  O  ye 
bells!  your  distant  voices  are  invitations  and 
salutations  from  Eternity !  O  ye  bells — of  as 
piration — of  affection — of  hope ! — how  ye  ring 
out  in  memory !  Poet-peals,  heart -touching 
as  any  of  nature's  voices — like  Heine's  "far- 
off  chimes,  smiting  with  mysterious  awe,"  bid 
ding  "insatiable  yearning,  profound  sadness, 
steal  into  the  heart;" — bells,  perhaps,  that  fill 
us  with  a  sense  of  the  infinitude  of  being,  lift 
ing  the  boundaries  of  sense  and  thought  far 
off, — like  Milton's  curfew,  heard  distinctly 
from  some  high  plot  of  ground,  sounding, — 

"Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar;" — 

like  a  peal  of  chiming  bells  at  evening  under 
a  starry  sky,  playing,  "The  heavens  declare  the 
glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth  his 
handiwork." 

And,  when  the  hot  and  dusty  day  has  run 
its  course,  is  there  not  a  chime,  wished  for  and 
expected  ? 

"Twilight  and  evening  bell, 
And  after  that  the  dark!" 


14  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Not  the  blank  darkness  of  nothingness,  but 
the  softening,  soothing  shadows  that  are  meant 
for  rest,  and  which  prelude  the  Eternal  Morn 
ing. 

There  is  an  immortal  Elegy,  that  with  the 
tolling  of  any  bell  at  evening,  abides,  a  haunt 
ing  spell  of  music,  so  long  as  human  feeling 
and  the  English  speech  endure.  Surely  Mil 
ton  and  Gray  will  live  in  England,  and  wher 
ever  the  sons  of  that  great  Mother  have  gone ; 
nor  will  the  curfew  cease  from  memory,  but 
must,  however  our  social  customs  change,  for 
ever  "toll  the  knell  of  parting  day." 

V. 

The  waste  billow  has  a  double  voice — a 
melody  that  is  not  all  its  own.  Did  it  not 
speak  with  sudden  sharpness  up  out  of  the 
waves  to  you,  that  surf-swung  bell,  as  you 
were  swept  past  it  ?  A  startling  clang  beneath 
your  prow,  and  it  sounded  faintly  behind  you. 

"In  the  void  air  the  music  floats," 

or  along  the  homeless  sea.  The  Inchcape  bell, 
like  a  siren,  lures  the  wanton  sailor  to  his  own 
undoing.  Like  all  music,  the  music  of  bells 
seems  most  consonant  with  winds  and  waters. 


Memory  and  Bells.  15 

The  harmonies  of  the  turret  have  sweetness 
still  more  delicious  coming  down  to  still  shores 
and  quiet  waters,  to  the  wash  of  waves  or  the 
lapse  of  streams.  We  wonder  if  rowers  still 
pause  on  their  oars  to  listen,  as  on  the  evening 
when  memory's  minstrel  mingled  the  melody 
of  the  rivers  of  Erin  with  that  of  alien  waters, 
and  lingered  with  Canadian  boatmen  listening 
to  the  chimes  faintly  tolling  at  St.  Anne's! 
And,  if  long  an  absentee,  has  Father  Prout 
been  forgotten,  with  his 

"Bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee?" 

There  is  a  poetess  of  our  own  time  whom  the 
gentle-hearted  feel  to  call  sister.  You  will  say 
Elizabeth  Browning,  or  Christina  Rossetti, 
and  I  will  not  gainsay  )^ou ;  but  I  now  mean 
Jean  Ingelow.  We  have  all  heard  some  dear 
school-girl  give  her  own  peculiar  emphasis  to 
the  "Boston  Bells"  that  rang  over  that  "stolen 
tyde"  when  all  the  floods  were  out,  and  fair 
Elizabeth  went  calling,  "Cusha,  cusha,"  amid 
the  watery  meadows: 

"The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three, 
'Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before; 
Good  ringers,  pull  your  best/  quoth  he." 


1 6  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Was  ever  anything  at  once  so  threadbare,  and 
so  whole  and  sweet !  But  among  her  later 
poems  is  one  into  which  she  has  woven,  among 
many  things  of  beauty  and  harmony,  music  of 
bells  in  the  fruitful  vale  of  Evesham.  There, 
amid  orchards  by  the  river-side,  she  seems  to 
have  heard,  stealing  from  the  old  abbey,  what 
here  she  gives  us  in  a  memory-chime: 

"Often  in  dream  I  see  full  fain 

The  bell-tower  beautiful  that  I  love  well, 
A  seemly  cluster  with  her  churches  twain ; 
I  hear  adown  the  river,  faint  and  swell 
And  lift  upon  the  air  that  sound  again, — 

It  is,  it  is, — how  sweet  no  tongue  can  tell, 
For  all  their  world-wide  breadth  of  shining  foam 
The  bells  of  Evesham  chiming  Home,  Sweet 
Home !" 

"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  the  bells, — how 
happily  they  sound  together !  We  put  the 
chimes  of  Ingelow  to  match  the  chimes  of 
Cowper. 

Bells  and  the  sea !  What  boy  forgets 
Southey  and  his  Inchcape  bell!  What  of  the 
bells  that  ring  their  music,  cheerful  or  melan 
choly,  beside  the  shore?  Can  any  elfin  music 
ever  visit  earth  like  that  out  of  the  bosom  of 


Memory  and  Bells.  17 

the  deep,  from  submerged  towns,  "lost  in  the 
olden  times,"  as  imagined  by  the  German  poet  ? 

"How  from  the  sea's  abyss  there  rings 
The  sound  of  prayers  and  chimes." 

Bells  on  shipboard !  The  sounding  of  the  sail 
or's  watch  at  night.  A  stroke  of  the  imagina 
tion  almost  unequaled  in  all  the  pages  of  Long 
fellow,  piercingly  vivid  is  that  scene  on  board 
the  doomed  Valdemar,  when 

"The  dismal  ship  bell  tolled, 
And  ever  and  anon  she  rolled 
And  lurched  into  the  sea." 

Bells  of  the  sea  and  shore !  Bells  of  fate  and 
warning — I  hear  them ! 

"  'O  father,  I  hear  the  church  bells  ring ! 

O  say,  what  may  it  be?' 
"T  is  a  fog  bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !' 
And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea." 

Ah!  amid  the  perishing  storms  of  this  early 
winter,  so  cruelly  begun,  has  this  poetry  of  the 
past  been  written  fact  in  the  distress  of  the 
present,  when  but  a  fortnight  since,  from  Cape 
Sable  to  Cape  May,  "the  seaman's  cry  was 
heard  along  the  deep!" 


1 8  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Bells  by  the  lake-side !  Many  visions  rise 
before  me;  many  voices  of  many  bells  sound 
in  my  ears.  I  see  Wordsworth,  on  a  Sabbath 
morning",  standing  bareheaded,  with  quickened 
sense,  listening  to  the  softened  tones  that  float 
down  Ullswater,  or  across  Rydalmere — mo 
tionless,  while 

"Down  the  placid  lake 

Floats  the  soft  cadence  of  the  church-tower  bells." 

Bells  of  the  wilderness !  I  see  Tom  Campbell 
entranced  with  his  wild  Bavarian  Eldern,  to 
hear 

"Church  bells  tolling  to  beguile 
The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by," 

with  reminiscence  of  Von  Weber's  imitative 
music ;  or  Ebenezer  Elliott,  traversing  "the 
path  of  the  quiet  fields,"  reading  Shenstone, 

"When  the  village  bell 
Sounds  o'er  the  river,  softening  up  the  dell." 

Bells  of  the  waste  places !  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Charles  Kingsley,  hurrying,  with  distracted, 
melancholy  thoughts,  over  the  snow-clad 
moorland,  when  cheery  bells  were  ringing  in 
Christmas  Eve.  Doleful  they  seem  to  him,  for 
I  hear  him  cry: 

"The  bells  but  mock  the  wailing  world !" 


Memory  and  Bells.  19 

Bells  over  the  heather!  Scott  heard  them 
chime  in  that  wild  song  of  Marmion !  I  see 
Tom  Hood  turning  him  about  at  Hampstead 
and  pausing  in  the  road  to  beguile  his  walk 
with  notes  of  sweetness,  that  he  might  trans 
mit  them  to  us  in  sweetest  verse: 

"Dear  bells !  how  sweet  the  sound  of  village  bells, 

When  on  the  undulating  air  they  swim ! 
Now  loud  as  welcomes  !    Faint,  now,  as  farewells ! 
And  trembling  all  about  the  breezy  dells, 
As  fluttered  by  the  wings  of  cherubim." 

VI. 

Francis  Mahony, — more  familiarly  known 
as  "Father  Prout," — sings : 

"With  fond  affection 
And  recollection, 
I  often  think  on 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells." 

For  the  music  of  bells  is  somehow  in  league 
with  the  tenderest  affections.  We  hear  the 
same  sound  to  which  they  once  listened  who 
now,  maybe,  are  accustomed  to  the  singing  of 


20  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

angels.  What  is  that  strain  you  remember  in 
the  far-off  days,  of  "those  evening  bells?"  It 
is  your  mother's  voice,  and  you  hear  it  when 
other,  nearer  voices  are  silent,  singing  as  once 
often,  but  no  more, 

"Of  youth  and  home,  and  that  glad  time 
When  last  we  heard  their  soothing  chime." 

Her  image  is  radiant,  for  she  is  now  with  the 
departed  she  sang  of,  who  stay  not  to  hearken 
after  earthly  chimes.  I  fancy  we  will  grow 
for  a  moment  a  little  less  worldly  while  we 
listen  to  these  chimes  of  memory,  and  remem 
ber  that  "so  't  will  be  when  we  are  gone."  I 
think,  too,  the  Irish  poet's  follies  will  be  for 
gotten  by  some  who  have  the  memory  of  a 
mother's  voice  singing  his  pensive  verses. 

"Soft  hour!  which  wakes  the  wish,  and  melts  the 

heart.    .    .    . 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way, 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start." 

While  we  are  busied  about  ringing  the 
chimes  of  memory,  we  suddenly  recall  one  of 
the  sweetest  ever  heard,  of  the  most  plaintive, 
pathetic  note,  from  an  old  and  mighty  poet — 
the  Voice  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Still  the  old, 


Memory  and  Bells.  21 

strange,  sweet  words  have  power,  we  would 
that  all  might  feel: 

"Lo  di  ch'han  detto  a'  dolce  amici  a  dio; 

Eche  lo  nuovo  peregrin'  d'  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  lontano, 

Che  paia  '1  giorno  pianger  che  si  muore." 

But,  if  we  may  not  all  do  this,  and  sip  this 
rill  from  the  most  liquid  of  Etruscan  foun 
tains,  we  may  seek  our  fairest  compensation 
in  the  English  of  that  Rossetti  who  bore 
Dante's  name;  which  is,  on  the  whole,  closest 
to  the  original,  though  that  of  Byron,  quoted 
above — who  caught  the  spirit  of  it — is  cer 
tainly  fine.  These  verses  come  to  the  soul  of 
some  with  indescribable  power.  Who  would 
not  feel,  though  he  had  never  read  a  line  of 
his  history,  how  Dante  must  have  lived  in  a 
strange  city  and  felt  the  woes  of  exile ! 

"It  is  the  hour  that  thaws  the  heart,  and  sends 

The  voyager's  affections  home,  when  they 
Since  morn  have  said  adieu  to  darling  friends; 

And  smites  the  new-made  pilgrim  on  his  way 
With  love,  if  he  a  distant  bell  should  hear 
That  seems  a-mourning  for  the  dying  day." 

One  fondly  lingers,  as  on  enchanted  ground, 
and  wishes  the  pilgrim  may  not  depart.  We 
bring  our  sensibility  into  touch  with  this 


22  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

lucent,  fragrant  ambergris  of  the  mournful 
poet's  heart  and  fancy — homeless,  yet  so  in 
love  with  home — that  down  the  centuries  gains 
currency  more  and  more  with  lovers  of  song. 
The  more  it  is  chafed,  it  smells  the  sweeter. 
It  has  still  the  charm  that  was  felt  by  Ma- 
caulay,  and  is  worthy  his  magnificent  eulo- 
gium:  "To  other  writers  evening  may  be  the 
season  of  dews  and  stars  and  radiant  clouds. 
To  Dante  it  is  the  hour  of  fond  recollection 
and  passionate  devotion, — the  hour  which 
melts  the  heart  of  the  mariner  and  kindles  the 
love  of  the  pilgrim, — the  hour  when  the  toll 
of  the  bell  seems  to  mourn  for  another  day 
which  has  gone  and  will  return  no  more." 


VII. 

Stand,  if  you  will,  at  the  baptism  of  the  bell, 
when  it  goes  sounding  up  into  the  tower  of 
St.  Gudule,  and  "all  men  praise  with  laud 
ing  lips  the  apotheosis."  Or  wait,  where  the 
bell  of  Schiller  is  being  rung,  for  the  nuptial 
or  the  burial.  Sweeter  and  sadder  peals  were 
never  sounded  than  from  our  German  poet's 
belfry. 

Or  ascend,  with  Victor  Hugo,  some  visioned 
height  of  the  long-ago  city  by  the  Seine.  Paris 


Memory  and  Bells.  23 

is  aglow  with  the  rising  sun  of  a  Whitsuntide, 
or  an  Easter  morning.  The  half-slumbering 
metropolis  lies  beneath  you,  its  almost  innu 
merable  spires  emblazoned  in  that  glory  which 
lit  the  peaks  of  that  fifteenth  century  even  as 
it  does  ours.  Hark !  't  is  the  awakening  of  the 
bells !  Soon  as  the  sun  gives  the  signal,  as  if 
the  ear  had  vision,  there  ascends  the  sounding 
column,  there  hovers  the  floating  cloud  of  har 
mony.  The  towers  of  a  thousand  churches 
tremble  melodiously.  At  first,  as  when  an 
orchestra  sends  out  its  prelusive  notes,  "a  tink 
ling  vibration  runs  over  the  city,  then  comes 
the  crashing  peal  that  tells  to  the  drowsiest 
ear  the  arrival  of  the  sacred  morning!  At 
first  the  vibration  of  each  bell  rises  straight, 
pure,  and  in  a  manner  separate  from  that  of 
the  others,  into  the  splendid  morning  sky; 
then,  swelling  by  degrees,  they  blend,  melt, 
amalgamate  into  a  magnificent  concert.  It  is 
now  but  one  mass  of  sonorous  vibrations, 
issuing  incessantly  from  the  innumerable 
steeples,  which  floats,  undulates,  bounds, 
whirls  over  the  city,  and  expands  far  beyond 
the  horizon  the  deafening  circle  of  its  oscilla 
tions.  That  sea  of  harmony,  however,  is  not 
a  chaos.  Vast  and  deep  as  it  is,  it  has  not  lost 


24  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

its  transparency;  you  see  in  it  each  group  of 
notes  that  has  flown  from  the  belfries,  winding 
along  apart;  you  may  follow  the  dialogue,  by 
turns  low  and  shrill ;  you  may  see  the  octaves 
skipping  from  steeple  to  steeple;  you  watch 
them  springing  light,  winged,  sonorous  from 
the  silver  bell ;  dropping  dull,  faint,  and  feeble 
from  the  wooden;  you  admire  the  rich  gamut 
incessantly  running  up  and  down  the  seven 
bells  of  St.  Eustache;  you  see  clear  and  rapid 
notes  dart  about  in  all  directions,  make  three 
or  four  luminous  zigzags,  and  vanish  like 
lightning.  Down  yonder  the  Abbey  of  St. 
Martin  sends  forth  its  harsh,  sharp  tones ;  here 
the  Bastile  raises  its  sinister  and  husky  voice; 
at  the  other  extremity  is  the  great  tower  of 
the  Louvre,  with  its  counter-tenor.  The  royal 
chimes  of  the  palace  throw  out  incessantly  on 
all  sides  resplendent  trills,  upon  which  falls, 
at  measured  intervals,  the  heavy  toll  from  the 
belfry  of  Notre  Dame,  which  makes  them 
sparkle  like  the  anvil  under  the  hammer. 
From  time  to  time  you  see  tones  of  all  shapes, 
proceeding  from  the  triple  peal  of  St.  Germain 
des  Pres,  passing  before  you.  Then  again  at 
intervals  this  mass  of  sublime  sounds  opens 
and  makes  way  for  the  strette  of  the  Ave 


Memory  and  Bells.  25 

Maria,  which  glistens  like  an  aigrette  of  stars. 
Beneath,  in  the  deepest  part  of  the  concert, 
you  distinguish  confusedly  the  singing  within 
the  churches,  which  transpires  through  the 
vibrating  pores  of  their  vaults.  Verily  this  is 
an  opera  which  is  well  worth  listening  to.  In 
the  ordinary  way,  the  ordinary  noise  issuing 
from  Paris  in  the  daytime  is  the  talking  of  the 
city;  at  night  it  is  the  breathing  of  the  city; 
in  this  case  it  is  the  singing  of  the  city. 

"Lend  your  ears,  then,  to  this  tutti  of  stee 
ples  ;  diffuse  over  the  whole  the  buzz  of  a  mil 
lion  human  beings,  the  eternal  murmur  of  the 
river,  the  infinite  piping  of  the  wind,  the  grave 
and  distant  quartet  of  the  four  forests  placed 
like  immense  organs  on  the  four  hills  of  the 
horizon;  soften  down  as  with  a  demi-tint,  all 
that  is  too  shrill  and  too  harsh  in  the  central 
mass  of  sound,  and  say  if  you  know  anything 
more  rich,  more  gladdening,  more  dazzling 
than  that  tumult  of  bells ;  than  that  furnace  of 
music;  than  those  ten  thousand  brazen  tones 
breathed  all  at  once  from  flutes  of  stone  three 
hundred  feet  high ;  than  that  city  which  is  but 
one  orchestra ;  than  the  symphony  rushing  and 
roaring  like  a  tempest." 


26  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

VIII. 
"Rustling  runners  and  sharp  bells." 

Not  sharp,  but  soft,  of  sound,  is  my  fancy. 
"Your  bells  are  sweet,"  I  said  to  my  com 
panion,  as  we  went  gliding  at  moonlit  evening 
along  a  woodland  road,  between  firs  hooded 
with  late  snow.  "Yes,"  he  observed,  "they  call 
them  'chimes.'  I  object  to  the  obstreperous 
jingle,  yet  want  something  on  winter  nights 
beside  the  creaking  of  my  sleigh  to  listen  to." 
At  the  word  "chimes"  I  fell  into  silence,  and 
went  off  fairying.  My  friend  furnishes  me  a 
moonlit  ride  and  an  agreeable  companion,  who 
says  the  fitting  word,  not  too  often,  but  leaves 
me  to  pleasant  memories  and  fancies  set  to  the 
music  of  fairy  bells.  They  do  not  rudely  as 
sault,  they  entice,  the  ear.  There  is  a  delicate, 
persistent  jingle- jangle,  and  through  my  brain 
these  words  go  galloping  on : 

"How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night, 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  tinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From   the  bells." 


Memory  and  Bells.  27 

For,  indeed,  "the  sleigh-drive  through  the 
frosty  night,"  which  is  one  of  the  imaginative 
joys  of  "Snow  Bound,"  can  have  no  more 
musical  accompaniment  than  the  chimey  tinkle 
of  those  delicate  fairy  bells. 

IX. 

But  with  Yule  the  bells  reach  the  summit 
of  their  power.  Then  they  are  riotous;  from 
that  height  they  triumph!  And  the  chimes 
that  summon  the  New- Year,  how  they  stir  us ! 
Then  we  revert  again  to  the  clangorous  notes 
where  the  grand  organ  of  the  "In  Memoriam" 
swells  its  loudest : 

"The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 


Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  increase, 
Peace  and  good  will,  good  will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good  will,  to  all  mankind. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die." 


28  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

And  again,  the  softer  strain  of  the  laureate 
of  our  own  coasts,  who  bids  us  hear 

"The  bells  on  Christmas-day 
Their  old  familiar  carols  play," 

till  instantly  all  the  memory  chimes  of  Yule- 
tide  are  resounding,  to  mind  us  of  star  and 
sage,  of  manger  and  babe,  of  shepherd  and 
singing  seraph. 

X. 
"How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal ! 

And  hark!  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall. 
And  now  along  the  white  and  level  tide 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide ; 
Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days  and  those  delightful  years 
When  from  an  ancient  tower,  in  life's  fair  prime, 
The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears.'' 
—William  Lisle  Bowles,  "Bells  of  Ostend." 

I  recall  one  evening  of  a  by-gone  summer, 
when  I  had  gone  into  the  upper  part  of  what 
Longfellow  has  termed,  "that  leafy,  blossom 
ing,  and  beautiful  Cambridge" — home  of  gen 
ius  and  of  learning — then  in  its  season  of  rich 
est  efflorescence,  and  at  the  sweetest  time  of 
the  Sabbath.  The  air,  softened  and  serene, 
was  ready  for  its  burden  of  musical  vibration ; 
the  sky  was  full  of  faintly-tinted  light,  and  the 


Memory  and  Bells.  29 

foliage  was  fresh  and  unsullied  from  recent 
showers.  I  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  "Craigie 
House" — demesne  of  valor  and  song!  haunt 
of  a  hero  of  an  earlier  age,  and  a  master- 
minstrel  of  our  own — when  the  chimes  com 
menced  to  float  upward  to  my  ear  from  the 
heart  of  the  bowery  city  below.  Memory-bells 
again !  It  was  charmed  listening.  He,  who 
then  dwelt  in  the  home  near  by,  but  who  now 
has  drawn  "a  little  nearer  to  the  Master  of  all 
music,"  while  his  dust  sleeps  in  Mount  Auburn 
— he  loved  such  tones,  and  rung  them  again  in 
his  own  mellow  numbers, — 

"Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times." 

For  was  it  not  while  lying  wakeful  in  the  inn 
of  the  "quaint  old  Flemish  city,"  listening  to 
the  bells  of  the  market-place,  that  the  genius 
of  Memory  arose  and  threw  wide  her  many- 
folded  doors!  In  his  verse  are  stirred  the 
tongues  of  many  bells : 

"O  curfew  of  the  dying  day, 
O  bells  of  Lynn !" 

Mournfully,  solemnly, 

Pealing  its  dole, 
The  curfew  bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll." 


30  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Chimes  out  of  the  Middle  Ages, — 

"Bells  that  ring  so  slow, 
So  mellow,  musical,  and  low;" — 

holy,  half  mournful  tones,  such  as  Evangeline 
listened  to  while  standing  before  her  father's 
doorway,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hands, 
while  the  sun  was  descending,  and  "sweetly 
over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus 
sounded."  So,  also,  is  Millet's  picture  like  a 
poem,  "half  rustic,  half  divine," — a  silent 
strain,  like  that  which  goes  beating  its  hal 
lowed  way  through  hearts  that  are  lowly, — 

"With  whom  the  melodies  abide 
Of  the  everlasting  chime." 

XI. 

What  lover  of  song  can  talk  of  bells  and 
not  remember  Schiller,  with  his  well-conned 
poem,  elaborate  and  exhaustive? — or  of  one 
less  than  Schiller,  in  breadth  and  in  spiritual 
vigor,  if  not  in  refined  mentality ;  but  not  in 
the  faculty  of  musical  and  beautiful  expres 
sion — Edgar  Poe?  He  educed  the  orchestral 
capacity  of  our  own  world-wide  speech — in 
tensely  and  essentially  a  poet,  if  little  he  could 


Memory  and  Bells.  31 

teach  us.  One  soul  may  not  give  us  all  things ; 
each  brings  forth  his  own  peculiar  treasure; 
and  for  lack  of  sustained  power,  dynamic  force 
of  genius  and  character,  he  has  a  compensat 
ing  something  to  give.  Where  have  we  an 
intenser  worship  at  the  shrine  of  harmony  and 
of  exquisite  form?  Where  can  we  hear  a 
subtler  music  than  he  won  from  the  bells  ?  He 
is  a  ringer  of  elfin  chimes  the  most  aerial — 
chimes  heard  far  aloof,  or  from  turrets  sub 
merged  by  the  sea,  or  faerie  knells,  like  those 
rung  by  sea-nymphs  in  that  magical  play,  "The 
Temptest."  Hear  them ! 

"Through  the  balmy  air  of  night, 
How  they  ring  out  with  delight ; 
From  the*  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats!" 

Bells  that  are  jubilant !  Bells  that  utter  rap 
ture!  Bells  resonant  of  hope  and  joy!  Bells 
that  prophesy!  For  the  bells  have  not  alone 
the  power  of  invoking  Memory;  they  are 
potent  enchanters;  inspirers  of  courage  and 
expectation.  For  what  boy  was  he,  who — 
lucky  deserter  from  good  fortune,  timely  re- 


32  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

called ! — looked  back  through  the  lights  of  one 
magical  evening  from  his  seat  on  the  stone  at 
the  foot  of  Highgate  Hill,  upon  the  great  city 
behind  him,  and  interpreted  the  musical  salu 
tation  of  Bow  Bells  into:  "Turn  again,  turn 
again,  Dick  Whittington,  thrice  Lord  Mayor 
of  London!"  The  hodden,  kindly  muse  of 
Eliza  Cook  has  embalmed  his  legend  and 
pointed  his  moral : 

"Be  it  fable  or  truth  about  Whittington's  youth, 
Which  the  tale  of  the  magical  ding-dong  im 
parts, 

Yet  the  story  that  tells  of  the  boy  and  the  bells 
Has  a  purpose  and  meaning  for  many  sad 
hearts." 

A  spirit  in  the  bells,  say  you  ?  Ay,  if  you  will ; 
but,  perchance,  a  spirit  also  in  the  boy,  or  he 
had  heard  their  voices,  but  found  not  their 
meaning. 

XII. 

And  what  of  the  humors  of  the  bells  ?  They 
laugh,  rejoice,  and  make  merry.  There  lies 
many  a  joke  under  their  clanging  tongues,  and 
the  throbbing  air  comes  with  many  a  ripple  of 
mirth.  Schiller  closes  his  great  poem  jubi- 


Memory  and  Bells.  33 

lantly,  as  his  bell  rises  up  into  the  belfry,  and 
its  first  salutation  falls  on  waiting  ears : 

"Now  then,  with  the  rope  so  strong, 
From  the  vault  the  bell  upweigh, 
That  it  gains  the  realms  of  song, 
And  the  heavenly  light  of  day! 
All  hands  nimbly  ply ! 
Now  it  mounts  on  high : 
To  this  city  JOY  reveals, — 
PEACE  be  the  first  strain  it  peals !" 

And  did  not  Hunter  Duvar  tell  us  of  the 
baptism  of  the  Bell  of  St.  CEudula?  and  how 
the  carnal  friars  made  a  rollicking  day  of  it, 
and  sprinkled  the  holy  water  with  wicked 
leers ;  naming  her  "as  she  passed  the  belfry 
slips" — they  alone  knew  why — St.  Jimima! 
Hear  the  shouts  rising  from  the  populace, 
while — 

"All  men  praised  with  lauding  lips 
The  apotheosis  of  the  bell !" 

And  what  wild,  merry,  tipsy,  talkative,  com 
panionable  bells  were  those  Charles  Dickens 
listened  to, — bells  lending  rarest  delight  to  one 
of  his  most  charming  fantasies, — bells  that 
burst  out  so  loud  and  clear  and  sonorous,  say 
ing  :  "Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  waiting  for  you, 
3 


34  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Toby.  .  .  .  Come  and  see  us ;  come  and 
see  us.  Drag  him  to  us ;  drag  him  to  us. 
Haunt  and  haunt  him;  haunt  and  haunt  him. 
Break  his  slumbers;  break  his  slumbers! 
Toby  Veck !  Toby  Veck !  Door  open  wide, 
Toby."  They  drew  him, — the  enchanters ! 
They  drew  him,  as  they  have  drawn  us,  till 
he  cared  not  whither  his  feet  wandered,  while 
their  summons  was  in  his  ears. 

"The  Bells,  the  old  familiar  Bells !  his  own 
dear  constant  friends;  the  chimes  began  to 
ring  the  joyous  peals  for  a  New- Year ;  so  lust 
ily,  so  merrily,  so  happily,  so  gayly,  that  he 
leaped  upon  his  feet.  .  .  .  The  chimes  are 
ringing  in  the  New- Year.  'Hear  them.'  They 
were  ringing!  Bless  their  sturdy  hearts! 
They  were  ringing !  Great  bells  as  they  were ; 
melodious,  deep-mouthed,  noble  bells ;  cast  in 
no  common  metal ;  made  by  no  common 
founder;  when  had  they  ever  chimed  like  that 
before?" 

Not  since  they  chimed  in  the  ears  of  a  poet 
like  their  celebrant,  who  makes  his  rite  the 
more  religious,  and  gives  us  another  litany  of 
the  heart.  Sleep  well,  Charles  Dickens,  be 
neath  the  worn  pavement  and  the  beckoning 


Memory  and  Bells.  35 

towers  of  thy  gray  minster !  They,  too,  call 
me,  and  I  should  like  to  go  and  stand  where 
you  were  laid.  The  tolling  from  above  shall 
not  wake  you;  but  such  joyous  peals  as  you 
have  rung  will  ever  fill  the  memory  of  man 
with  delight.  We  love  you  well,  great  de 
parted  one!  for  your  ringing  of  memory- 
chimes. 

XIII. 

"I  heard  the  city  time  bells  call 

Far  off  in  hollow  towers, 
And  one  by  one  with  measured  fall 

Count  out  the  old  dead  hours ; 
I  felt  the  march,  the  silent  press 
Of  time,  and  held  my  breath ; 
I  saw  the  haggard  dreadfulness 
Of  dim  old  age  and  death." 

— Archibald  Lampman. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  bells  that  have 
sterner  voices ;  bells  darkly  rusted,  and  doom- 
ful  in  their  notes;  that  answer  "fiercely  back" 
the  sighs  of  mortals ;  with  an  angry,  implac 
able,  as  well  as  an  "impetuous  strain,  ringing," 
or,  rather,  clanging,  "in  the  very  bricks  and 
plaster  on  the  walls."  For  what  a  doleful  peal 
was  that  which  startled  the  guilty  bosoms  of 
Lord  and  Lady  Macbeth,  waking  at  dead  of 


36  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

night  all  that  slept  in  the  castle,  when  the  hue 
of  death  was  on  Duncan's  face,  and  "his  silver 
skin"  was  "laced  with  his  golden  blood !"  A 
victim  is  a  terrible  creature  loosed  in  this  uni 
verse,  and  free  to  appear  before  God ! 

"Ring  the  alarum-bell :  Murther !  and  treason ! 
Ring  the  bell !" 

It  was  not  on  Whittington's  ear  alone  there 
fell  the  calling  bells;  they  have  borne  mes 
sages  of  dread  and  doom.  Think  you  that 
Lochiel  shall  have  triumphant  exit  from  Cul- 
loden  ? 

"Ah  no !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ;     .     .     . 
His  death-bell  is  tolling!" 

Such  sound  gave  warning  to  the  tremulous 
heart  of  the  Countess  Amy,  for  her  poet  makes 
her  shudder, — 

"That  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear !" 

Then,  before  the  dawning  of  her  fateful  day — 

"Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death  bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  his  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall." 


Memory  and  Bells.  37 

And,  in  the  Wallenstein  of  Schiller,  we  find  a 
thrill  responsive  to  the  Fourth  Henry  of 
France,  who  foreboded  the  knife  of  Ravaillac : 

"The  phantom 

Started  him  from  the  Louvre,  chased  him  forth 
Into  the  open  air ;  like  funeral  knells 
Sounded  that  coronation  festival." 

The  bells !  Their  iron  tongues  seemed  calling 
him  to  his  doom. 

With  what  a  shudder  of  awfulness  "even 
the  vesper's  heavenly  tone  smote  sea  and  shore 
and  the  unfeeling  rocks,  bidding 

"The  passing  bell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  passing  soul," 

when  "injured  Constance"  had  been  entombed 
at  Holy  Isle,  and  the  direful  conclave  that  had 
just  consigned  her  was  ascending  to  the  lights 
of  a  summer  evening.  Ay,  long  after  the  stars 
were  shining, — 

"Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprang  up  on  Cheviot  fell, 


38  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind ; 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern." 

And  how  soon  are  all  the  quips  and  jests 
wherewith  Death  condescended  to  tickle  his 
lean  uncomely  sides  (when  he  became  mellow 
and  garrulous  in  the  glow  of  Burns's  usquc- 
bae),  made  worse  than  ridiculous  when  that 
midnight  monitor — 

"The  auld  kirk  hammer  struck  the  bell !" 

XIV. 

Heralds,  monitors,  of  sorrow  and  misfor 
tune  are  they.  They  toll  not  as  bells  from  our 
village  towers,  when  they  who  have  passed 
peacefully  are  laid  in  reverent  quietude  away. 
They  have  the  note  of  horror.  They  sounded 
in  Paris,  at  St.  Bartholomew's,  when  papal 
vengeance  fell  on  the  noblest  heads  and  the 
fairest  necks  in  France.  Their  hideous  clangor 
has  sounded  throughout  Spain  at  many  an 
auto-da-fc,  when,  with  lifted  cross,  humanity 
and  the  Christ  of  humanity  were  insulted  by 
the  monsters  of  a  barbaric  religion,  and  the 


Memory  and  Bells.  39 

father  put  the  torch  to  the  pile  where  his  beau 
tiful  and  delicate  child  was  consumed.  Heaven 
fend  our  world  again  from  times  like  those ! 
Dreadful  bells !  They  rang  when  great  Lon 
don  was  on  fire,  and  the  winged  fury  that  be 
gins  his  circuit  on  sheds  and  returns  on  palaces 
was  in  full  splendor  of  his  march.  We  are 
wakened  from  our  sleep  by  such  doom-notes, 
when  fear  comes  upon  the  spirit  and  trembling, 
and  our  chamber  glares  with  the  rolling  flame 
that  shrivels  and  scorches  in  mockery.  So  the 
poet  shakes  us  with  ghoulish  bells, — battle- 
bells, — and  bells  whose  shriek  is,  "Fire !" 

"What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar, 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 

Yet  there  were  some  tones  of  triumph  and 
gratulation  mingled  with  the  lamentation  of 
the  Kremlin  bell,  when  their  beloved  Moscow 
wilted  into  ashes  before  the  torches  of  its  citi 
zens  ; — for  was  it  not  a  show  of  defiance  that 
Napoleon  turned  pale  to  see?  Great,  waste, 
wintry  land,  with  its  undaunted  hearts !  Is 
this  the  stone  of  offense  on  which  nations  are 
yet  to  stumble  and  be  broken?  The  "loud 


40  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

tocsin"  told  no  such  triumph   for   Prague  or 
Poland : 

"Hark !  as  the  smoldering  piles  in  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call !" 

They  tell  us  this  Muscovite  Empire  is  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world  for  bells;  and 
that  their  "delicious  tones,  which  ring  at  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  night,  distill  their  melody 
into  the  Moujik's  ears  from  his  babyhood."* 
So  were  there  triumphant  notes,  according  to 
our  noble-speaking  poet,f  when  the  great 
church  tower  of  Hamburg  was  in  flames,  and 

"The  bells,  in  sweet  accord," 
pealed  forth  that  grand  old  German  hymn, 
"All  good  souls  praise  the  Lord." 

And,  hark !  was  that  the  tolling  of  a  bell 
floating  along  the  watery  way  of  Venice  ?  Yes, 
it  was  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark,  bidding  the 
conspirators  rally  to  their  work — and  to  their 
doom !  In  the  great  council  hall,  where  hang 
the  portraits  of  the  Doges,  we  are  told,  by 
Madame  de  Stael  in  her  "Corinne,"  that 
Marino  is  degraded.  "On  the  space  which 
would  have  been  occupied  by  that  of  Faliero, 


*How  the  Russian  Moujik  Lives.    William  Durban, 
t  Lowell. 


Memory  and  Bells.  41 

who  was  beheaded  as  a  traitor,  is  painted  a 
black  curtain,  whereon  is  written  the  date  and 
manner  of  his  death."  And  Byron  closes  his 
version  of  the  Doge's  tragedy  with  the  sig 
nificant  lines : 

"His  hoary  hair 

Streams  on  the  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave ! 
Now — now — he  kneels — and  now  they  form  a 

circle 

Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden — but  I  see 
The  lifted  sword  in  air— Ah!  hark!  it  falls! 

The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  Giants'  Steps !" 

If  one  is  disposed  to  pity  the  victims  in  the 
Parisina  of  Byron — and  the  poet  claims  pity 
for  his  misguided  people,  pity  dangerous  to 
the  lover  of  virtue — he  may  listen,  while — 

"The  convent  bells  are  ringing 

But  mournfully  and  slow, 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark !  the  hymn  is  singing — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 
The  death-hymn  peals,  and  the  hollow  bells 
knoll." 


42  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

XV. 

And  thou,  dark-haunted  mediaeval  Xotre 
Dame !  were  not  thy  bells  beloved  by  him  who 
sounded  the  Angelus  or  rang  for  vespers,  yet 
when  he  did  so  heard  them  not,  save  when  he 
was  in  the  belfry  beside  them ; — that  singular, 
gnomic,  half-human,  half-daemonic  being,  wrho 
was  the  familiar  of  thy  walls,  thine  aisles  and 
mysterious  cloisters,  —  thy  Calaban-Ouasi- 
modo,  an  Ariel-soul  imprisoned  within  his 
misshapen  body  ?  O,  the  Bells !  the  Bells ! 
How  says  thy  poet?  "He  loved  them,  he  ca 
ressed  them,  he  talked  to  them,  he  understood 
them — from  the  chimes  in  the  steeple  of  the 
transept  to  the  great  bell  above  the  porch.  The 
belfry  of  the  transept  and  the  two  towers  were 
like  immense  cages,  in  which  the  birds  that  he 
had  reared  rang  for  him  alone.  It  was  these 
same  birds,  however,  which  had  deafened  him. 
.  .  .  It  is  true  that  theirs  were  the  only 
voices  he  could  still  hear.  .  .  ."  Can  you 
not  see  him,  flying  up  the  winding  staircase 
to  the  high  belfry,  when  a  great  peal  was  to 
be  rung,  and  hurrying  breathlessly  into  the 
"aerial  chamber"  where  repose  his  brazen 
aviary,  with  folded  wings,  and  especially  his 


Memory  and  Bells.  43 

monstrous  Mary, — regarding  her  with  the  lov 
ing  attention  a  master  gives  his  mettled  steed 
when  about  to  put  him  to  his  utmost  ?  Ah ! 
and  then,  when  the  ringers  below  drew  the 
ropes,  and  the  "windlass  creaked,  and  slowly 
and  heavily  the  enormous  cone  of  metal  was 
set  in  motion,"  how  Quasimodo,  "with  heav 
ing  bosom  watched  the  movement !  The  first 
shock  of  the  clapper  against  the  wall  of  brass 
shook  the  woodwork  upon  which  it  was  hung. 
Quasimodo  vibrated  with  the  bell,  'yah!'  he 
would  cry,  with  a  burst  of  idiot  laughter. 
Meanwhile  the  motion  of  the  bell  was  accel 
erated,  and  as  the  angle  which  it  described 
became  more  and  more  obtuse,  the  eye  of 
Quasimodo  glistened  and  shone  out  with  more 
phosphoric  light.  At  length  the  grand  peal 
began :  the  whole  tower  trembled ;  rafters, 
leads,  stones,  all  groaned  together,  from  the 
piles  of  the  foundation  to  the  trefoils  of  the 
parapet.  Quasimodo  then  boiled  over  with  de 
light;  he  foamed  at  the  mouth;  he  ran  back 
ward  and  forward ;  he  trembled  with  the  tower 
from  head  to  foot.  The  great  bell,  let  loose, 
and,  as  it  were,  furious  with  rage,  turned  first 
to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other  side  of  the 
tower  its  enormous  brazen  throat,  which  issued 


44  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

a  roar  that  might  be  heard  to  the  distance  of 
four  leagues  around.  Quasimodo  placed  him 
self  before  this  open  mouth ;  he  crouched  down 
and  rose  up,  as  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro,  in 
haled  its  boisterous  breath,  and  looked  by 
turns  at  the  abyss  two  hundred  feet  deep  be 
low  him,  and  at  the  enormous  tongue  of  brass 
which  came  ever  and  anon  to  bellow  in  his  ear. 
This  was  the  only  speech  that  he  could  hear, 
the  only  sound  that  broke  the  universal  silence 
to  which  he  was  doomed.  He  would  spread 
himself  out  in  it  like  a  bird  in  the  sun.  All  at 
once  the  frenzy  of  the  bell  would  seize  him ; 
his  look  became  wild ;  he  would  watch  the 
rocking  engine,  as  a  spider  watches  a  fly,  and 
suddenly  leap  upon  it.  Then,  suspended  over 
the  abyss,  carried  to  and  fro  in  the  formidable 
oscillation  of  the  bell,  he  seized  the  brazen 
monster  by  the  earlets,  strained  it  with  his 
knees,  spurred  it  with  his  heels,  and  with  the 
whole  weight  and  force  of  his  body  increased 
the  fury  of  the  peal.  While  the  tower  began 
to  quake  he  would  shout  and  grind  his  teeth, 
his  red  hair  bristled  up,  his  breast  heaved  and 
puffed  like  bellows  of  a  forge,  his  eye  flashed 
fire,  and  the  monstrous  bell  neighed  breathless 
under  him.  It  was  then  no  longer  the  bell  of 


Memory  and  Bells.  45 

Notre  Dame  and  Quasimodo :  it  was  a  dream, 
a  whirlwind,  a  tempest,  vertigo  astride  of  up 
roar  ;  a  spirit  clinging  to  a  winged  monster ;  a 
strange  centaur,  half  man,  half  bell ;  a  species 
of  horrible  Astolpho,  carried  off  by  a  prodig 
ious  hippogriff  of  living  brass."  Surely  in  all 
the  romantic  literature  of  Bells  there  is  nothing 
to  parallel  with  this! — vivid  as  the  lightning, 
rapid  as  the  whirlwind,  invigorating  to  the 
spirit  as  a  mountain  storm. 


XVI. 

Many  bells  there  are,  of  many  chimes.  We 
may  have  leisure  to  listen,  as  they  sound  in 
memory,  by  and  by.  Bells,  throbbing  pen 
sively,  where  Owen  Meredith  leans  out  from 
his  window  in  the  damp  night  to  gather  the 
sweet  sadness : 

"The  sound  of  the  midnight  bells 
When  the  oped  casement  with  the  night  rain  drips." 

Bells,  sounding  in  the  twilight!  for,  in  the 
changing  of  our  vision,  the  boy,  Keats,  is  seen 
wandering  at  his  will,  toying  with  "songs  of 
birds,"  with  "whispering  of  leaves,"  and  all 


46  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

beguiling  and  delightful  things, — charmed  at 
last  most  of  all  by 

"The  great  bell  that  heaves 
With  solemn  sound." 

"The  antiphonal  bells  of  Hull,"— our  Ca 
nadian  city,  so  recently  desolated  by  fire; — 
as  Duncan  Scott  has  sounded  them  over  the 
land  in  musical  verse.  The  bells  of  Rome,  for 
the  crowning  of  Corinne,  ring  in  my  ear;  and 
the  bells  of  Florence  that  Dante  heard  going 
afar ;  and  the  bells  that  Marian  Evans  rung  in 
her  "Romola;"  temple  bells  calling  from  "the 
old  Moulmein  Pagoda,"  as  Rudyard  Kipling 
lately  heard  them.  I  hear  the  chimes  of  Nor 
ton  Bury,  from  the  memory  of  her  who  wrote 
"John  Halifax!"  "Norton  Bury  was  proud  of 
its  Abbey  chimes."  And  Elizabeth  Brown 
ing's  knight,  in  the  "Rhyme  of  the  Duchess 
May,"  remembers  the  like  sounds  less  pleas 
antly  : 

"He  sprang  up  in  the  selle,  and  he  laughed  out 

bitter  well, — 
'Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves,  as  we 

used  on  other  eves 
To  hear  chime  a  vesper  bell?' 

I   sat  beneath   the  tree,   and   the   bell   tolled 
solemnly, 

Tolled  slowly. 


Memory  and  Bells.  47 

While  the  trees'  and  river's  voices  flowed  between 

the  solemn  noises, — 
Yet  death  seemed  more  loud  to  me." 

Hawthorne,  on  a  Sunday  morning,  sits 
watching  the  church-goers  along  the  side 
walks  below,  hearing  every  sound,  and  espe 
cially  one — as  "with  an  unexpected  sensation 
the  bell  turns  in  the  steeple  overhead,  and 
throws  out  an  irregular  clamor,  jarring  the 
tower  to  its  foundation." 

I  see  Longfellow  on  the  Nahant  shore.  He, 
too,  seems  among  the  entranced  ones: 

"Down   the   darkened   coast   run  the   tumultuous 

surges, 

And  clap  their  hands  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells 
of  Lynn !" 

And  there,  yet,  is  Whittier,  sitting  in  the  door 
of  his  white  "Tent  On  the  Beach,"  for  he,  too, 
can  hear,  when  "the  wind  is  lightly  blowing, 
and  the  waves  are  silent," 

"The  bells  of  morn  and  night 
Swing,  miles  away,  their  silver  speech.1* 

Smaller  bells,  with  slenderer  notes ; — Bryant's 
"bells  of  wandering  sheep,"  and  "sheep-bells 
.  .  .  on  the  desert  hills,"  with  Gray's 
"drowsy  tinklings"  that  "lull  the  distant 
folds ;"  Wordsworth  hearing  the  bells  of  kine 


48  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

as  they  go  to  pasture  on  the  hills  of  Westmore 
land. 

I  hear  Spenser  waking  the  bells  of  his 
"Epithalamium,"  to  celebrate  the  bridal  of 
Maia;  and  Tennyson,  as  at  the  close  of  the 
"In  Memoriam,"  he  awakens  the  echoes  at  the 
bridal  of  a  sister: 

"Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 
The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells." 

I  see  the  glow  in  Scott's  eyes,  as  he  looks 
up  into  the  face  of  Willie  Laidlaw,  from  read 
ing  the  newly-written  sheet : 

"On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung." 

XVII. 

But,  ah,  Time  himself  is  a  winged  bell,  toll 
ing  very  swiftly !  Space  narrows ;  we  can  not 
give  to  speech  all  musical  memories  that  cluster 
upon  us,  nor  listen  now  to  all  the  "melodious 
bells  among  the  spires."  We  listen  still,  we 
muse,  we  hesitate  to  depart : 

"The  bell  strikes  one!     We  take  no  note  of  time. 
But  by  its  loss." 


Memory  and  Bells.  49 

O  ye  sounding  chroniclers !  of  what  past  and 
passing  hours  take  ye  note?  What  musical 
record  make  ye  of  the  passing  generations? 
Will  ye  not  soon  ring  in  the  Laureate's  hap 
pier  time  ?  Listen  to  one  of  the  deepest  strains 
of  one  of  the  truest  poets  of  our  age : 

"This  is  the  midnight  of  the  century, — hark ! 

Through  aisle  and  arch  of  Godminster  have 

gone 

Twelve  throbs  that  tolled  the  zenith  of  the  dark. 
And  mornward  now  the  starry  bands  move  on ; 
'Morn ward !'  the  angelic  watchers  say, 

'Passed  is  the  sorest  trial ; 
No  plot  of  man  can  stay 

The  hand  upon  the  dial ; 
Night  is  the  dark  stem  of  the  lily  day.' " 


XVIII. 

We  were  about  to  cry:  Beat  us  not  down, 
O  Bells !  with  your  doom-notes,  your  discon 
tented  jangling;  trample  us  not  beneath  a 
hopeless  music,  in  which  there  is  no  Christly 
mercy  and  compassion.  But  what  is  this  you 
tell  us,  O  Bells!  The  night  is  far  past,  and 
the  morning  is  at  hand.  You  beat  the  upward 
march  of  humanity ;  you  ring  the  triumph  of 
mankind !  Bless  you,  O  Bells !  No  longer 
4 


50  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"toll  slowly;"  no  longer  ring  mournfully;  but 
tell  Time's  gladdest  story — peal  the  fullness  of 
its  jubilee! 

"O  chime  of  sweet  St.  Charity, 
Peal  soon  that  Easter  morn 
When  Christ  for  all  shall  risen  be, 
And  in  all  hearts  new-born  !" 

Ring  in  that  millennial  day,  O  Bells ! 


XIX. 

I  think  that  Charles  L,amb  gave  us  right,  as 
well  as  pleasant,  words  when  he  said,  among 
other  fine  sayings,  that  high-pealing  bells  make 
"the  music  nighest  bordering  on  heaven." 
They  solemnize  the  soul,  and  fit  it  for  the  mes 
sage  that  comes  only  in  our  serenest,  clearest 
mood. 

"Tintadgel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide ;" 

and  this  is  the  word  they  speak — the  message 
of  "the  merry  Bottreau  bells :" 

"  'Come  to  thy  God  in  time !' 

Rang  out  Tintadgel  chime; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

'Come  to  thy  God  at  last !'  " 


Memory  and  Bells.  51 

XX. 

"O  ye  sweet  bells  of  concord,  fling 

Your  burden  to  the  haunted  air ! 
Ye  bells  of  peace,  a  solace  bring 

Down  to  this  weary  world  of  care ! 
Your  voices  falling  from  above, 

Like  star-breathed  anthems  silver-clear, 
Our  prayerful  hearts  to  praise  shall  move, 

In  hope  of  heaven's  millennial  year. 
Your  metal  mouths  be  tuned  alone 

To  themes  eternal  and  sublime, — 
The  golden  joys  that  have  not  known 

The  dull,  corroding  touch  of  Time. 
Bespeak  the  souls  that  homeward  fly, 

With  wings  of  music,  glad  and  free, 
To  the  pure  temple  of  the  sky, 

The  palace  of  eternity." 

And  soon,  perhaps,  the  bells  whose  music 
woke  anew  with  our  existence,  will  signify, 
more  solemnly,  our  departure.  Slowly  their 
brazen  tongues  will  number — or  more,  or  less 
— our  "threescore  years  and  ten."  They  will 
consign  our  lives  to  Memory;  then  Memory 
will  hand  our  names  to  Oblivion. 

Shall  we  not  welcome,  in  its  season,  this 
final  "cure  of  all  diseases?"  As  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  quaintly  and  truly  saith :  "There  is 
no  catholicon,  or  universal  remedy  I  know  but 


52  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

this,  which,  though  nauseous  to  queasy 
stomachs,  yet  to  prepared  appetites  is  nectar 
and  a  pleasant  potion  of  immortality." 

Soon  it  will  be  time  for  the  ringing  of  life's 
curfew : 

"Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light." 

But,  beyond  the  darkness  and  the  silence  that 
shall  follow — Wake !  blessed  chimes  that  usher 
in  the  new  morning! — Wake!  Bells  of  Eter 
nity! 


&torp  of  a  €1)115. 


"  'T  is  of  a  little  child 

Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 

Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way." 
—  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

THE  sultriest  day  of  the  year  was  well  ad 
vanced,  and  the  August  sun  was  in  its  languid 
decline,  when,  jaded  with  journeying  in  the 
heat  —  as  I  had  been  obliged  to  walk  all  the 
way  from  Pointz  Creek  —  I  came  to  the  foot  of 
the  hill  leading  upward  to  the  village  of  Ar- 
doise,  where  I  had  an  appointment  at  evening. 
A  feeling  of  faintness  and  of  unusual  weari 
ness  oppressed  me  suddenly.  I  paused,  and 
looked  upward  along  the  hill-road  that  wound 
to  the  naked  top,  a  ribbon  of  yellow  glaring 
dust.  The  heavy  wheels  of  a  wagon  just  ahead 
of  me  made  the  situation  still  more  intolerable, 
for  the  dust  they  stirred  nearly  hid  horses  and 
driver  from  view.  I  regretted,  also,  my  walk 
ing-stick,  which  I  am  in  the  habit  of  leaving 
53 


54  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

inopportunely  at  home,  and  the  duster  that  I 
knew  to  be  at  that  moment  hanging  unused 
in  the  hall,  while  meditating  the  difficulty  of 
the  ascent  before  me. 

When  the  dust  had  cleared  somewhat,  and 
the  wagon  had  vanished  beyond  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  I  lifted  the  gripsack  with  which  I  was 
encumbered,  and  trudged  on.  But  when  I 
came  to  a  cluster  of  pines  at  the  roadside, 
wrhose  branches  overspread  the  way,  the  temp 
tation  to  rest  seemed  irresistible,  and  I  flung 
myself  down  on  the  carpet  of  brown  needles, 
to  inhale  their  fragrance  and  soothe  my  ear 
with  the  indefinable  music  that  comes  through 
their  myriad  tassel-harps  out  of  the  aerial 
deep.  Reclining  there,  the  mystic  song  put 
me  into  a  mood  of  dreams ;  my  eyes  closed,  or 
half-opening,  pored  on  a  spray  of  golden-rod, 
or  a  butterfly  that,  flitting  like  a  white,  delicate 
thought  here  and  there,  lit  finally  and  poised 
on  a  buttercup.  The  crickets  sang  in  the  stub 
ble;  the  grasshoppers  went  on  their  eccentric 
way  around  me;  the  pines  whispered  out  of 
dreamland. 

I  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  a  slow,  shuf 
fling,  dragging  tread,  and  the  muttered  tone 
of  a  voice.  I  sat  up  immediately,  and  looked 


'Phemie.  55 

toward  the  road.  An  old  man  had  come  into 
view,  who  was  talking  strangely,  wildly  to 
himself,  and  gesticulating  with  his  right  hand, 
while  in  the  left  he  held  his  walking-stick.  He 
drooped  his  head  forward,  and  his  face  was 
shaded  under  a  broad  hat,  while  he  sweltered 
in  a  slouching  coat  of  threadbare  black.  He 
looked  not  to  right  or  left,  nor  appeared  to 
notice  me,  talking  all  the  while  with  himself, 
and  flourishing  hand  or  cane — so  he  shuffled 
on,  stirring  the  dust  into  a  cloud  before  him. 
Just  a  few  steps  beyond  where  I  sat  he  paused, 
leaned  heavily  on  his  staff,  and  with  a  labored, 
asthmatic  breathing,  panted  and  muttered  as 
he  stood.  When  he  moved  on  again  I  heard 
him  say,  in  a  tone  of  reverie,  "I  shall  find  her, 
I  shall  find  her  yet!" 

My  curiosity  was  piqued  by  his  manner  and 
utterance;  so  I  watched  him  till  he  had  as 
cended  the  hill  well-nigh  to  the  summit ;  when, 
unwilling  to  have  him  pass  from  my  view,  I 
arose  and  hastened  after  him.  At  a  perspir 
ing  gait  I  reached  the  hill-top,  and  kept  the 
aged  pilgrim  within  my  vision.  Having 
gained  the  point  of  vantage  whence  I  could 
survey  his  movements,  I  paused  to  recover  my 
breath,  and  to  note  in  detail  the  features  of 


56  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

an  extensive  domain  of  hill  and  vale  and  wind 
ing  water  spread  below  me ;  for  at  this  eleva 
tion  the  view  was  one  of  the  most  inspiring  I 
had  seen  in  this  part  of  the  country. 

Just  a  little  way  beyond  stood  an  old-time 
farmhouse,  on  the  right  side  of  the  road,  with 
its  low  hipped  roof,  unpainted  walls,  and 
small-paned  windows.  The  abundance  of 
shrubbery  did  something  to  relieve  its  homely 
bareness.  A  hop-vine  enfolded  the  eastern 
gable  and  the  lean-to  in  its  thick-clustered  em 
brace  ;  while  over  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
the  porch  of  entrance,  a  mass  of  woodbine 
went  climbing  to  the  roof,  as  yet  scarcely 
touched  with  the  autumnal  flame.  Lilac  shrubs 
grew  wildly  at  the  corners  of  the  house,  decay 
ing  here  and  there.  In  front  were  the  relics 
of  an  old-fashioned  garden,  not  nowadays 
very  carefully  tended,  in  which  grew  irregu 
larly  the  flowers  that  delighted  in  the  long  ago. 
There  had  once  flourished  bachelor's-buttons, 
candytuft,  marigolds,  dahlias,  lavender,  and 
the  damask  rose;  and  there  the  hollyhock  set 
up  its  knightly  spear,  like  a  sylvan  crusader, 
all  clustered  with  tinted  rosettes.  Between  the 
garden  and  the  fence  that  inclosed  it  was  an 
ample  space  of  green  lawn  sheltered  with  elms. 


'Phemie.  57 

maples,  and  varied  shrubbery ;  while  over  at 
the  left  were  the  moldering  remains  of  an  or 
chard,  the  gnarled  limbs  of  which  were  fruited 
scantily. 

The  old  man  having  arrived  in  front  of  this 
farmhouse,  which  stood  solitary,  turned  ab 
ruptly,  and,  entering  by  the  smaller  of  the  two 
gates,  walked  slowly  up  the  path  to  the  front 
door.  He  did  not  enter  at  the  main  portal, 
however,  but,  passing  around  toward  the  back, 
disappeared.  The  place  seemed  an  invitation 
to  rest,  and,  in  some  way  unaccountable,  the 
man  had  exercised  a  fascination  upon  me;  so 
I  halted,  came  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and 
stood  leaning  over  the  big  farm  gate,  wiping 
my  perspiring  face,  and  looking  wishfully 
toward  the  well-sweep  just  inside,  fancying 
the  coolness  and  sweetness  of  that  which  was 
abundantly  stored  below  in  "the  deep-delved 
earth." 

Away  at  the  left  of  the  house,  at  the  foot  of 
a  smooth  grassy  slope,  stretched  the  winding 
waters  of  the  creek,  white  and  sluggish,  save 
where  it  took  the  fires  of  the  approaching  sun 
set.  There  the  poplar  clapped  and  rustled  its 
myriad  silver  leaves,  and  made  a  joyous  mel 
ody  ;  while  on  its  bluff  stood  the  somberer  oak 


58  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

and  the  more  somber  pine-tree,  to  give  sylvan 
life  its  appropriate  shadow,  and  to  intone  the 
graver  monody  of  human  hearts. 

Nearer  was  an  enticing  syren-cluster  of  sil 
ver  birches,  on  one  part  of  the  slope ;  while  at 
the  brow,  and  just  beyond  it,  were  the  apple- 
trees,  gnarled  and  mossy,  in  sprawling,  irreg 
ular  attitudes,  looking  as  if  they  had  at  some 
time  been  badly  frightened,  and  had  started  to 
run  down  hill.  The  fields  around,  and  this 
yard  in  front  of  me,  were  brightly  green,  for 
the  rain  had  been  abundant,  while  the  heat  was 
recent  and  exceptional.  The  hilltop  seemed 
benedictory ;  gladly  I  inhaled  its  gracious 
freshness.  The  balm  of  Gilead  tree,  that  hung 
motionless  over  the  big  gate,  though  it  scat 
tered  its  buds  no  longer,  like  those  that  regaled 
my  sense  and  lulled  me  in  boyhood,  brought 
a  wave  of  haunted  memory  refining  their  spicy 
odor. 

Presently  the  old  man  reappeared  in  the 
yard,  and,  carrying  with  him  a  bucket,  came 
toward  the  well.  He  was  a  little,  old  man, 
very  much  shrunken,  and  tottered  feebly,  put 
ting  out  his  staff  before  him  in  a  dim-sighted 
manner,  as  if  uncertain  of  his  way.  I  ob 
served  particularly  his  tremulousness,  and  a 


'Phemie.  59 

peculiar  straining  and  blinking  of  his  eyes,  as 
of  one  who  faces  a  strong  light.  He  suddenly 
halted,  as  if  he  had  observed  me,  and  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  if  to  obtain  a  more 
certain  view  of  my  person ;  but  he  removed 
his  hand  directly,  and  proceeded  to  the  well. 

There  was  about  him  an  atmosphere  of  re 
finement  and  good  breeding,  and  he  had  an 
appearance  of  gentleness  and  high  intelligence 
unusual  in  rural  communities.  Yet  years 
seemed  to  have  adjusted  him  to  his  rustic  en 
vironment,  and  the  polish  of  his  nature  had 
taken  a  sort  of  rust.  His  face,  however,  indi 
cated  intelligence  and  refinement,  rather  than 
force,  and  there  was  a  confused  sense  of  men 
tal  bewilderment  given  out  from  him — of  a 
partial  wrecking  and  paralysis  of  the  man. 
Yet  there  was  a  certain  stateliness  of  move 
ment,  with  all  his  tremulous  uncertainty,  and 
the  noble  manner  and  fine  consciousness  were 
indicated,  which  are  the  property  of  the  gen 
tleman  and  the  scholar.  His  spare  figure  gave 
evidence  of  former  strength  and  athletic  sup 
pleness,  but  these  were  long  since  departed. 
His  brow  broad ;  his  face  and  hands  still  white ; 
his  eyes  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer,  blue,  deep-set, 
overhung  by  heavy  brows,  and  surrounded  by 


60  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

many  wrinkles.  His  ample  forehead  was  fur 
rowed  with  decisive  lines,  and  seemed  planned 
for  meditative  and  philosophic  thought. 

A  fringe  of  curly  hair  encircled  his  temples, 
and  the  silvery  bleached  crown,  now  bare. 
His  locks  were  like  clean-washed  wool ;  his 
chin  was  covered  with  a  fine  beard,  closely 
trimmed ;  his  cheeks  were  large,  but  hollow 
and  flabby ;  his  mouth,  full,  yet  fine.  His  nose 
was  a  marked  feature,  and  gave  a  distinction 
to  his  now  colorless  face.  He  wore  a  dress- 
coat  of  faded  black,  which  hung  slackly  upon 
him,  and  slouched  about  his  knees  to  keep 
rhythm  with  his  swaying  movement.  It  was  a 
face  on  which  many  years  and  many  sorrows 
had  inscribed  their  evident  legends. 

Let  it  be  interpolated  here  that  I  had,  dur 
ing  my  week  of  rustication  in  the  vicinity  of 
Ardoise,  an  ample  opportunity  to  become  inti 
mate  with  "Master  Huot"  (for  it  was  by  this 
title  he  was  widely  known), — an  opportunity 
I  did  not  neglect  to  improve.  The  old  man 
admitted  me  to  his  confidence,  and  related  to 
me  some  portion  of  his  history.  He  was  of 
French  ancestry,  and  had  come  from  the  island 
of  Barbadoes  soon  after  entering  his  teens; 
and  in  that  sunny  clime  some  of  his  kindred 


'Phemie.  61 

still  survived.  It  thrilled  him  to  remember 
the  suffering  and  sacrifice  of  his  Protestant 
ancestors,  who  were  thrust  out  of  France  by 
a  perfidious  Catholic  king ;  and  he  was  not 
afraid,  if  not  vain,  to  match  the  name  of  Puri 
tan  with  that  of  Huguenot. 

"Master  Huot"  was  himself  of  a  deeply  re 
ligious  strain,  a  member  of  the  Baptist  denomi 
nation.  He  had  married  a  domestic  woman, 
of  gentle  nature,  and  had  settled  here  many 
years  before.  He  had  seen  sons  and  daughters 
grow  up  about  him,  had  buried  some  of  them, 
but  had  lived,  since  the  death  of  his  wife,  with 
his  eldest  son,  who  kept  the  homestead.  Far 
and  wide  he  had  traveled,  his  vocation  being 
that  of  an  old-time  schoolmaster.  He  loved  to 
recalr  memories  of  that  dear  old  time  in  the 
vale  of  the  St.  Croix ;  or  his  sojourn  where  the 
Annapolis  goes  slipping  away  among  its  apple- 
trees,  in  the  society  of  his  friend,  Angus  Gid- 
ney,  who  would  recite  to  him  the  lays  of  Mc- 
Pherson,  "The  Harp  of  Acadia,"  of  whom  he 
was  preceptor  and  patron. 

I  called  one  evening  at  the  farmhouse,  and 
found  him  alone.  Following  my  knock,  I 
heard  his  shuffling  tread,  when  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  he  gave  me  one  of  his  peer- 


62  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ing  looks  of  scrutiny,  and  exclaimed,  cheer 
fully,  "Ah  !  it  is  Mr." Alley !  Come  in,  sir." 

He  had  been  seated  near  the  window,  and 
he  resumed  his  arm-chair  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  whereon  was  laid  an  old  leather-covered 
volume,  open  page  downward.  I  advanced  to 
inspect  it,  and  found  it  to  be  "Tristram 
Shandy."  "Yes,"  said  he,  "I  like  sometimes 
to  amuse  myself  with  this  fine  old  humorist." 

"Do  you,"  I  asked,  "class  him  with  your 


wise  men 


"Alas!  no,"  he  replied;  "I  will  prefer  the 
wisdom  of  those  who  have  lived  well,  before 
they  wrote  well — Epictetus  or  Antoninus,  for 
example — or,  better,  Paul.  But  Sterne  has  the 
strain  of  humanity,  and  I  may  laugh  with  him ; 
though  the  laugh  dies  rather  querulously  away 
when  I  notice  his  dereliction  and  infirmity,  the 
hectic  pallor  of  his  life.  A  more  pitiful  death 
than  his  I  do  not  know  in  the  history  of  all 
mirthful  men." 

He  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  took  up  the 
book  as  if  to  refer  to  it,  but  laid  it  suddenly 
dowrn  again,  and  continued : 

"Weak  men  and  erring  men  are  in  the  great 
majority,  and  have  numbered  among  them 
some  of  the  brightest  and  most  gifted  of  man- 


'Phemie.  63 

kind,  including  some  whose  names  were  hal 
lowed  in  Holy  Writ.  But  Wisdom  remains 
the  same,  a  steadfast  star,  on  which  the  mar 
iner-soul  must  needs  look  if  he  steer  rightly. 
It  has  been  said  that  'in  the  multitude  of  the 
wise  is  the  welfare  of  the  world,'  yet  it  saddens 
us  to  see  how  solitary  they  stand  amid  the 
multitude  who  seem  impervious  to  wisdom,  or 
who  lack  the  will,  the  art,  or  the  leisure  to  be 
wise.  Happily  there  is  a  wisdom  accessible 
to  the  simple  which  consists  in  faith  and  obedi 
ence  toward  the  Lord  of  Life.  This  alone  we 
may  hope,  of  all  forms  of  wisdom,  shall  one 
day  become  the  common  heritage." 

It  became  evident  to  me  that  I  was  in  the 

/ 

presence  of  a  person  who,  in  a  neighborhood 
where  such  things  were  not  common,  led  the 
intellectual,  tempered  with  the  spiritual,  life  ; 
and  I  had  to  reconcile  this  with  certain  rumors 
of  his  insanity,  and  the  evidences  I  had  wit 
nessed  of  at  least  a  morbid  bias. 

He  was  fond  of  repeating  old-time  poetry, 
which  he  did  with  a  certain  sonorous  precision, 
yet  with  feeling  and  effectiveness.  I  can  see 
him  now,  with  his  spectacles  elevated  upon  his 
brow,  his  left  leg  crossed  over  his  right,  his 
head  erect  in  unwonted  stateliness,  while  with 


64  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

his  hand  moving  in  rhythmic  concert  with  the 
lines,  he  repeats  that  passage  of  Pope,  which 
has  in  it  an  unusual  and  real  pathos : 

"What  can  atone  (O  ever-injured  shade!) 
Thy  fate  unpitied,  and  thy  rites  unpaid? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear 
Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or   graced  thy  mournful 

bier. 

By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorned, 
By  strangers  honored,  and  by  strangers  mourned."* 

Or,  from  his  lips,  how  tenderly  sounded 
these  sweetest  lines  from  my  most  heartfelt 
poet — lines  never  heard  without  bringing  the 
vernal  thought  of  youth  into  the  heart's  au 
tumnal  bower: 

"O  life  in  death,  the  days  that  are  no  more !" 

"Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers ; 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'T  will  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  can  not  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 


*  "  Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate  Lady." 


'Phemie.  65 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard."* 

I  observed  that  he  gave  preference  to  pieces 
of  tenderness  and  pathos,  in  which  are  to  be 
felt  the  pulse  of  longing,  the  mingled  mood 
of  cheerfulness  and  mild  regret — a  feeling  in 
full  harmony  with  the  revelations  of  this  nar 
rative — for  I  must  remind  the  reader  that  this 
is  a  digression,  and  that  we  are  still  standing 
at  the  gate. 

I  had  supposed  myself  the  subject  of  the  old 
man's  scrutiny,  and  that  he  had  determined 
to  pass  me  without  salutation ;  but  it  was  soon 
evident  that  he  had  not  observed  me ;  for  he 
went  through  the  same  motions,  and  gazed 
outwardly  in  the  like  manner,  so  soon  as  he 
had  set  his  bucket  down  on  the  well-curb. 
Leaving  it  there,  he  wandered  obliquely  across 
the  yard  to  the  gate  at  which  he  had  entered, 
and  looked  with  a  sort  of  anxious  eagerness 
up  and  down  the  road,  as  if  to  note  the  ap 
proach  of  some  one  expected.  He  turned  and 
came  back  to  the  well ;  and  while  he  pro 
ceeded  to  lower  and  fill  his  bucket,  I  entered 


*  Wordsworth,  "  The  Fountain.' 
5 


66  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

the  yard  and  stood  at  his  elbow  just  as  the 
brimming  bucket  ascended  all  dripping  to  his 
hand. 

He  started  and  turned,  as  I  accosted  him : 
"Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  how  far  it  is  to  the  vil 
lage  of  Ardoise?" 

He  moved  and  answered  as  abruptly  as  one 
of  his  leisurely  habit  admitted ;  scanning  me 
searchingly,  and  finding  me  to  be  a  stranger, 
he  answered  courteously,  but  precisely  : 

"The  matter  of  half  a  mile,  we  call  it,  sir." 
"Will  you  favor  me  with  a  draught  from 
your  bucket?  The  sight  of  it  at  this  instant 
is  almost  overpowering;  and  I  concede  its 
merits,  with  the  writer  of  a  popular  song,  as 
being  far  superior  to  'the  nectar  that  Jupiter 
sips.'  If  the  sun  had  not  done  so.  the  sight  of 
your  cool  well  and  'old  oaken  bucket'  would 
make  me  thirsty." 

A  faint  smile  rose  to  his  lips  as  he  answered : 
"This  is  a  draught  indeed  to  slake  a  fever. 
My  father's  table  was  not  without  its  choice 
wine,  and  my  memory  can  recall  the  well- 
known  flavor ;  yet  here  I  have  what  now  con 
tents  me,  while  I  could  wish  that  no  draught 
less  innocent  might  ever  be  lifted  to  the  lips 
of  man." 


'Phemie.  67 

He  soon  supplied  me;  then,  while  I  eagerly 
drank  from  a  cup  that  had  been  hung  inside 
the  curb,  he  turned  away  his  attention  and 
scanned  the  road  again,  or  looked  down  the 
sunset  way  filling  with  glory  the  watery  vale 
below,  straining  his  eyes  in  either  direction, 
and  assuming  his  former  look  of  anxious  in 
quiry. 

"Is  there  some  one  expected,  for  whom  you 
are  looking?"  I  inquired. 

He  returned  again  to  a  subconsciousness  of 
my  presence,  and  addressed  me  in  a  tone  of 
preoccupation : 

"Ah !  sir,  I  have  looked  for  her  long ;  nor 
can  I  forbear  looking  for  her;  nor  can  I  con 
jecture  whither  she  has  gone.  But,"  he  added, 
in  a  tone  that  went  straight  to  my  heart,  "she 
will  come,  some  time !  Surely  she  will  come, 
some  time !" 

He  spoke  and  acted  in  so  distracted  and 
mournful  a  manner  that  I  was  led  to  survey 
his  face  more  critically  than  before.  I  noticed 
a  singular  muscular  twitching,  especially  about 
the  lips  and  eyes,  and  that  wild,  gleaming  ex 
pression  of  their  orbs,  peculiar  to  the  dis 
traught,  that  gave  me  a  suspicion  of  insanity, 
existing  in  its  milder  or  melancholy  form. 


68  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"Whom  do  you  expect?"  I  queried. 

"O,  sir,"  he  answered,  hopefully,  in  a  tone 
of  greater  cheerfulness,  and  of  a  childlike  con 
fidence,  "it  is  my  little  granddaughter — it  is 
'Phemie !  Ah !  sir,  it  is  most  strange,  and  I 
can  never  account  for  it ;  but  so  it  is,  and  it  is 
one  of  God's  great  mysteries,  and  our  most 
sore  privation.  Though  seven  times  the  buds 
have  fallen  from  yonder  balm  of  Gilead,  to 
make  the  air  sweet  with  memories  of  her,  she 
has  never  reappeared  at  the  door  from  which 
she  vanished  so  suddenly.  Yet  I  anticipate 
her  presence  momently,  and  feel  that  she  may 
enter  yonder  gate,  or  come  up  the  slope  from 
the  brookside — yes,  even  now,  while  I  speak 
of  her.  O !  can  you  know,"  he  continued, 
with  tone  and  manner  of  sharpest  pathos,  "can 
you  conjecture  what  a  parent  must  feel  to  lose 
a  dear  child  so — in  so  mysterious  a  way !  To 
miss  her,  sir,  when  she  has  seemed  absent  from 
your  sight  but  a  moment ;  to  search  for  her — 
to  search  anxiously  and  long,  and  to  renew 
your  quest — yet  never  to  see  her  again — never 
to  know  what  has  become  of  her!" 

My  sympathies  by  this  time  were  in  a  state 
of  lively  commotion,  and  he  paused,  with 
choked  utterance,  to  master  the  tumult  of  his 


'Phemie.  69 

bosom.  In  a  few  minutes  he  resumed :  "She 
was  a  precious  child,  sir !  Though  but  eight 
summers  had  flown  from  her  birth  to  the  void 
and  terrible  day  of  her  departure,  she  had 
woven  about  our  hearts  a  holy  spell,  and  we 
saw  her  through  a  mist  of  beauty  and  splen 
dor.  Where  she  moved  there  was  abundant 
life,  and  all  was  radiance.  I  scarcely  see  life 
any  more ;  but  then  it  teemed  in  every  sun 
beam,  and  swarmed  in  every  cranny.  She 
made  life  and  light,  sir !  She  was  the  darling 
object  of  our  affection.  I  never  loved  any 
human  creature  so !  God,  who  has  stricken, 
forgive  me,  if  I  made  her  my  idol ! 

"There  were  two  children  in  our  home — 
two  little  daughters.  My  son  sighed  for  a 
man-child,  who  might  become  his  companion 
and  helper  on  the  farm,  and,  by  and  by,  his 
successor.  It  is  in  our  children  we  hope  to 
survive,  for  our  graves  are  sweetened  by  grate 
ful  memories.  But  some  things,  howsoever 
we  long  for  them,  are  denied  us ;  and  his  desire 
was  never  gratified.  But  little  Eve,  and  our 
beautiful  Euphemia — whom  we  called  'Phemie 
— did  not  lack  love.  'Phemie  was  our  angel- 
child,  and  we  adored  her.  Eve  was  the 
younger  and  feeble — a  babe — a  yearling  lisper, 


70  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

who  engaged  our  care,  and  was  of  our  kind — 
clay  of  our  clay.  She  went  tottering  uncer 
tainly,  babbling  of  maternity,  and  we  reached 
our  hands  to  her  to  save  her  from  falling,  or 
gathered  her  to  our  bosoms.  There  was  a 
delicacy  about  her  that  excited  foreboding 
comment.  We  pitied  while  we  loved. 

"But  'Phemie  seemed  ours,  yet  not  wholly 
ours ;  she  moved  in  such  a  joyous,  undecaying 
atmosphere,  we  thought  of  her  as  of  one  al 
ready  immortal.  The  neighbors  saw  a  sign 
of  early  flitting  upon  the  baby's  brow,  but  they 
spake  not  so  of  'Phemie.  How  could  they  see 
in  her  a  bit  of  human  evanescence,  too 
strangely  beautiful  for  abiding  here  ?  O !  sir, 
if  you  know  the  language  of  the  poets,  and 
will  cull  their  magical  phrases,  yet  can  you 
not  paint  the  radiance  of  her  coming,  and  then 
the  sudden  gloom  of  her  departure.  But  he 
who  spake  of  the  vanishing  of  earth's  most 
beautiful  forms — the  snowflake,  the  aurora, 
the  rainbow — he  would  at  least  have  under 
stood  by  sympathy  our  woe  and  surprise.  He 
spake  truly,  for  grief  had  made  him  timely 
wise ;  and  the  same  lore  I  have  learned,  in  my 
season." 

Willing   to   encourage   his   somewhat   repe- 


'Phemie.  71 

titious  and  extravagant  eulogy,  when  that  was 
evidently  the  birth  of  so  deep  an  affection,  I 
observed,  as  he  gave  me  the  opportunity  of  a 
momentary  silence : 

"Was  your  'Phemie,  then,  so  much  more 
beautiful  than  Eve?" 

"Ah !  Eve,"  he  sighed ;  "dear  little  cherub, 
that  sat  with  wan,  uplifted  face,  and  gazed 
with  faerie-wide  eyes  into  vacancy,  as  if  she 
saw  something  our  eyes  could  not  see — it 
seemed,  indeed,  as  if  other  worlds  must 
claim  her !  We  loved  her  with  a  love  all  her 
own.  Do  you  not  know  that  each  child  in 
the  household  claims  its  unique  place  and  pe 
culiar  affection  ?  They  do  not  all  affect  us 
alike.  I  loved  her,  too,  and  still  love  her.  I 
know,  also,  whither  she  went.  Sometimes,  as 
I  sat  beside  her  cradle  watching  her,  she  in 
spired  me  with  unusual  and  indefinable  emo 
tion — filled  me  with  ghostly  thoughts  and 
dreamings,  most  unearthly,  vague,  and  soli 
tary. 

"But  'Phemie  warmed  my  blood,  and  filled 
all  my  horizon  with  light.  Nothing  ever 
realized  so  powerfully  the  glow  and  gleam  of 
youth — the  dawning  life  of  the  heart.  She 
was  of  our  world,  yet  with  the  glamour  of  an- 


72  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

other  world  around  her.  Asserting  that  sphere 
where  all  is  unfading  purity  and  beauty,  she 
kept  her  wings  hidden,  and  held  her  place 
upon  the  earth — ay,  without  any  warning  until 
she  went !  Sir,  she  was  the  sort  of  child  whom, 
having  known,  you  can  never  forget,  and  of 
whom  the  deprivation  is  unspeakable  woe. 
She  had  a  spirit  of  absolute  trust  and  affec 
tion  ;  she  was  an  embodied  rapture ;  she  was 
a  sunbeam  soul,  transfused  through  a  mold  of 
curves  and  dimples.  No  tint  or  outline  seemed 
lacking  that  could  heighten  loveliness.  Never 
dwelt  a  spirit  blither  or  gentler  in  a  whole- 
somer  or  seemlier  body.  I  would  dwell  on  her 
praises  more  than  a  lover  on  those  of  his  mis 
tress.  And,  O!  sir,  that  voice  of  hers!  To 
hear  her  coming  up  yonder  slope,  as  I  have 
often  heard  her, 

"  'Singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird 
That  claps  her  wings  at  dawn,' 

was  to  have  experienced  a  delight  no  bird  can 
give.  Ah !  it  was  good  to  listen  to  her ! 

"And,  when  in  motion,  her  form  was  de 
lightful  to  look  upon.  Just  one  glint  of  her 
sweet,  innocent  eyes,  with  the  old  mischief  in 
them ;  just  one  honest  peal  of  her  merry,  ring- 


'Phemie.  73 

ing  laughter;  just  one  more  sight  of  her  fly 
ing  figure,  now  fleeting  over  the  grass,  like  the 
Water-of-Birds,  that  slips  over  its  pebbles  sil 
ver-footed  at  the  base  of  the  hill,  or  dancing 
a-tiptoe  like  the  very  bobolink,  or  the  curving 
swallow !  Ah !  to  see  her  so  again,  if  but  for 
a  heart's  golden  minute !  That  is  all  I  need 
to  make  me  ready  to  go — to  follow  her,  hav 
ing  had  one  more  enticing  glimpse. 

"Sir,  had  you  become  sad,  to  enter  when  she 
was  present  had  been  a  heart's  tonic  for  you. 
She  was  no  rubicund  earthiness ;  her  face 
had  roundness  and  color,  but  her  features 
were  small  and  fine.  She  was  of  rarest  text 
ure;  her  figure  of  exceeding  symmetry.  Her 
full,  deep-lit  blue  eyes  were  shadowed  by  long 
lashes ;  and  the  purity  of  her  brow,  contrasted 
with  the  wavy  abundance  of  her  hair,  that 
rippled  gold  on  neck  and  shoulders,  seemed 
like  a  pearl  enchased.  A  mist  of  amber  round 
her  showed  that  hair  to  me  sometimes,  flying 
afoot  through  a  sea  of  daisies  and  buttercups, 
dancing  under  the  trees,  coquetting  with  the 
sunbeams — herself  a  sunbeam.  She  was  the 
fleetest,  lightest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  motion 
without  wings ;  for  wings,  I  fancy  could 
scarcely  have  borne  her  more  easily  than  her 


74  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

twinkling  feet.     She  was  nature's  child,  and 
loved  the  world  of  open  air. 

"  'O  blessed  vision  !  happy  child  ! 
That  art  so  exquisitely  wild !' 

"Never  can  I  think  of  Wordsworth's  hap 
piest  lines,  descriptive  of  child  or  woman,  with 
out  thinking  of  her: 

"  'She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn, 
That,  wild  with  glee,  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute,  insensate  things.' 

"The  grace  of  the  willow,  the  cloud,  and 
the  evening  star,  were  indeed  hers.  Then,  at 
times,  she  was  so  sage  and  grave,  so  abundant 
in  quaint  questioning  and  wise  remark — and, 
withal,  so  loving.  How  she  doted  on  that 
eerie,  wee  sister  of  hers !  It  seemed  as  if  she 
might  have  been  Love's  self,  divorced  in  the 
past  from  Sorrow,  and  in  the  present  wedded 
to  Joy." 

Again  he  paused,  as  if  he  had  exhausted 
his  vocabulary  of  admiration  and  eulogy.  It 
became  more  evident,  as  he  advanced,  that  his 
was  a  mind  unbalanced,  yet  with  a  rich  and 


'Phemie.  75 

fertile  fancy.  To  turn  his  thought,  I  said : 
"From  what  you  have  said  I  can  readily  con 
ceive  the  beauty  of  her  face  and  figure,  as 
well  as  the  brightness  and  sweetness  of  her 
spirit.  But  will  you  not  now  relate  to  me  the 
manner  of  her  disappearance?" 

"To  that  mournful  event  I  was  approach 
ing/'  he  responded.  "The  dear  girl  had  shown 
such  signs  of  rare  intelligence  and  musical 
ability  that  her  parents  designed  for  her  a  lib 
eral  education,  and  had  the  most  hopeful  ex 
pectation  concerning  her.  She  developed  rap 
idly,  was  mature  beyond  her  years,  and  was 
the  pet  and  favorite  of  all.  Then  came  the 
fateful  day  (what  other  can  I  call  it?)  that 
began  our  desolation.  It  was  in  the  season, 
too,  that  begets  our  liveliest  emotion — the  era 
of  hope,  when  the  young  grasses  are  spring 
ing,  after  arbutus  has  risen  from  its  wintry 
sleep  and  faded,  and  when  the  dandelion  has 
covered  our  hillsides  with  its  minted  gold,  and 
the  stars  of  Bethlehem  have  sprinkled  the 
meadow.  The  green  was  living  green ;  the 
lilac  bushes,  yonder  at  the  corners  of  the  fence, 
were  coming  into  blossom;  while  the  balmy 
buds  from  the  great  tree  over  the  gate  fell 
down  where  we  stand,  filling  the  air  with  bal- 


76  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

sam  sweetness.  The  warm  breeze  toying 
softly  with  its  leaves  made  them  to  rustle  and 
catch  the  changing  lights  of  a  sun  clearer, 
more  delicious  than  on  this  sultry  day ;  when, 
right  here,  under  the  shelter  of  its  branches,  I 
saw  'Phemie  and  baby  Eve  together,  the  elder 
leaping  and  playing  around  the  younger,  who 
threw  up  her  little  hands,  crowing  with  the 
glee  of  infancy,  both  brightening  in  the  glory 
that  fell  around  them.  I  sat,  watching  from 
the  porch.  Eve  caught  the  loose  leaves  and 
mingled  wild  flowers  with  which  her  sister  had 
filled  her  lap,  as  she  sat  on  a  shawl  spread  over 
the  grass,  and  tossed  the  sweet  baubles  aloof, 
crowing  aloud,  and  giving,  now  and  again, 
a  shrieking  emphasis  to  her  sweet  baby-babble. 
I  saw  'Phemie  weave  a  wreath  of  lilac  leaves 
and  blossoms,  and  put  it  on  her  sister's  tiny 
head ;  then  she  danced  and  spun  about  her  in 
a  whirl  of  delight,  as  if  her  sister  had  been  a 
Queen  of  the  May,  or  she  herself  a  servitor  of 
Titania.  Such  loving,  mirthful  attendance  I 
joyed  to  look  upon ;  it  was  a  part  of  nature's 
general  loveliness.  Then  she  started  on  a  stag- 
race  down  the  green  slope,  and  passed  from 
my  sight.  It  was  so  I  saw  her  for  the  last 
time. 


Themie.  77 

"I  thought  she  would  be  flying  back  again 
in  a  few  minutes;  and  directly,  I  entered  the 
house.  Her  mother  came,  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and,  missing  the  child,  said :  'I  won 
der  where  Themie  has  gone?  I  see  that  little 
Eve  is  sitting  alone.'  I  looked  out  and  saw 
the  baby  sitting  in  her  eerie  silence,  and  every 
appearance  of  mirth  was  gone.  I  sat  near 
the  window  for  a  time,  still  watching  the  little 
one ;  then,  when  I  began  to  wonder  that 
Themie  had  not  come  back,  I  went  out  to 
look  for  her.  I  was  ever  restless,  sir,  if  she 
was  not  in  my  presence. 

"I  went  out  behind  the  house,  shading  my 
eyes  from  the  afternoon  sun,  that  I  might  look 
down  the  slope  to  the  brookside,  whither  she 
might  have  gone  for  other  leaves  and  blos 
soms  ;  but  I  saw  no  living  thing,  save  a  soli 
tary  crow,  that  flew  over  the  meadow,  and, 
lighting  on  a  fir-tree  top,  sat  silently  looking. 

"I  re-entered  the  house,  when  her  mother 
asked  if  I  had  discovered  her.  'Nay,'  I  said, 
'she  was  nowhere  in  sight.'  'Where  can  the 
child  be?'  she  queried,  in  an  anxious  tone.  'It 
is  not  like  her  to  leave  baby  so  long.'  'I  think 
she  may  have  gone  down  to  the  brook  after  her 
father,'  I  replied;  'I  think  he  is  there,  for  I 


78  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

heard  the  sound  of  his  ax  clipping  among  the 
alders.'  So  I  sat  down  again  by  the  window, 
watching  Eve,  and  thinking  that  'Phemie 
would  soon  come  to  her.  Presently  I  heard  a 
little  cry,  and  I  went  out  to  cuddle  her  and  to 
fetch  her  in,  for  she  was  getting  fretful.  How 
ever,  it  seemed  pleasanter  outside,  and  I  dal 
lied  with  her  till  she  was  pleased,  then  crooned 
and  cradled  her  in  my  arms  till  she  fell  asleep ; 
then  I  laid  her  down  on  the  shawrl,  and  went 
round  to  the  back  of  the  house  once  more  to 
look  for  'Phemie.  I  saw  my  son  coming  up 
the  slope,  his  ax  over  his  shoulder — the  shift 
ing  blade  of  which  glanced  the  beams  of  light, 
for  the  sun  was  low ;  but  'Phemie  was  not  with 
him. 

"When  he  had  arrived,  and  learned  of 
'Phemie's  disappearance,  he  went  back  im 
mediately  to  look  for  her ;  while  I  carried  Eve 
into  the  house  and  hushed  her  to  rest  in  my 
arms,  for  I  had  need  of  quieting  more  than  the 
babe.  Her  mother,  too,  wore  a  look  of  anxi 
ety  she  strove  to  conceal,  and  went  about  her 
household  cares,  drawing  the  tea  and  laying 
the  cloth  for  supper.  Mary  was  a  sweet  and 
patient  woman,  and  the  quiver  of  her  lip  or 
the  rising  of  a  tear,  in  time  of  grief,  usually 


'Phemie.  79 

betrayed  her  emotion.  The  baby  slept  placidly 
as  a  sunset  lake,  with  a  star  like  a  smile  in  its 
waters.  The  gray  cat  sat  purring  gently  on 
the  hearth  rug,  and  sometimes  seemed  to  look 
up  at  me  inquiringly.  On  the  hob  the  tea 
steamed,  and  sent  out  its  fragrant  odor,  while 
the  tall  clock  sounded  distinctly  its  measured 
tick.  The  sunset  faded;  deeper  and  deeper 
grew  the  shadows;  an  hour  passed  away,  and 
then  another.  We  sat  and  waited,  and  still  we 
heard  no  footstep. 

"  'I  wonder  why  Robert  does  not  come  with 
'Phemie?'  sighed  her  mother,  in  a  tone  of 
pained  surprise.  'It  is  growing  very  late.' 
Just  then  we  heard  his  foot  on  the  threshold. 
He  entered,  pale  and  ghastly,  and  staggering 
as  if  from  a  heavy  blow.  There  was  no  dis 
guising  that  message  of  grief  and  fear. 
'Robert!'  cried  his  wife,  'what  is  the  matter? 
Where  is  'Phemie?'  'I  have  not  found  her,' 
he  faltered,  in  a  stifled  voice.  'No  one  has  seen 
her  in  all  this  neighborhood  to-day.  We  must 
call  out  the  people ;  we  must  search  the  woods 
— the  creek !' 

"O,  sir,  you  can  not  imagine,  nor  can  I  de 
scribe  to  you,  our  consternation — the  anguish, 
the  dismay,  that  oppressed  us.  The  mother 


8o  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

uttered  a  shrill  cry,  and  sank  down.  Supper 
had  long  been  ready,  but  on  the  board  it  was 
left  untasted.  Suddenly  I  found  myself  in 
solitude.  I  laid  the  little  Eve  in  her  cradle. 
Happily  she  slept;  and,  leaving  her,  I  went 
outside.  I  could  see  no  human  shape,  and 
could  hear  no  voice,  save  that  of  the  brook 
murmuring  in  the  hollow  with  prophetic  dis 
tinctness  in  that  still  world  of  trance.  The  sky 
was  clear,  and  a  few  soft  stars  were  mirrored 
in  the  creek.  I  heard  the  sharp  barking  of  a 
dog  somewhere  beyond  its  waters.  Ah !  what 
a  disturbed  heart  was  mine  on  such  a  tranquil 
night !  Could  the  world,  indeed,  be  so  changed 
for  me  and  mine  in  a  few  hours  !  The  shadows 
crept  ever  lonelier  round  me.  I  went  inside 
again,  and  sat,  listening  to  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  the  breathing  of  the  sleeping  babe,  and 
the  simmering  of  the  kettle  on  the  fire — for 
still  I  kept  the  tea  in  readiness,  in  hope  of  a 
possible  happy  return.  Alas !  what  a  thing  it 
is  to  have  become  old  and  helpless!  I  could 
do  nothing  but  sit,  the  prey  of  torturing 
thought,  while  my  unhappy  children,  in  the 
company  of  the  aroused  neighborhood,  had 
gone  out  in  search  of  our  lost  darling. 

"Soon  after  midnight  I  heard  the  sound  of 


'Phemie.  81 

approaching  footsteps.  It  was  Mary,  draggled 
and  dejected,  coming  to  look  to  her  baby.  She 
entered,  softly  weeping,  and  said :  'They  have 
not  found  her,  and  I  can  go  no  farther.  I  am 
of  little  use  in  the  woods.'  We  sat  and  waited 
through  the  awful  hours  together.  Little 
could  we  say.  Sometimes  a  low,  half-smoth 
ered  cry  would  escape  her — '  'Phemie — O, 
'Phemie !' — but  she  sat  and  wept  silently.  All 
that  night  her  father  wandered  in  his  wretch 
edness,  calling  through  the  woods — '  'Phemie ! 
'Phemie !'  and  to  the  hoarse  voices  of  stout 
men  the  hills  echoed,  '  'Phemie !' — but  she 
never  answered  to  their  call.  Hopefully  at 
first,  and  then  despairingly,  they  uttered  that 
cry,  but  in  vain. 

"Day  after  day  they  renewed  their  quest, 
and  every  foot  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  coun 
try  round  was  tramped  and  beaten  over;  but, 
in  life  or  in  death,  they  never  found  her,  and 
no  man  to  this  day  knows  where  she  went." 

The  mad  fire  burned  in  his  eyes,  and,  raising 
his  voice,  he  exclaimed,  passionately,  "Sir,  she 
never  came,  nor  have  we  ever  heard  of  her  till 
this  hour!  O  empty,  lonely  world!  O  God! 
if  we  could  only  have  known !  She  was  fit  for 
heaven,  and  the  angels  have  claimed  her;  she 
6 


82  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

was  God's  child  !  Yet  if  he  had  called  her,  and 
taken  her,  in  our  plain  sight,  and  we  had  heard 
her  adieu,  and  seen  the  saintly  smile  of  the 
dying,  we  might  have  been  more  reconciled  to 
let  her  go.  We  would  have  looked  out  to  the 
sunset,  and  down  to  the  meadow  in  its  early 
green,  and,  in  our  thought,  she  would  have 
become  a  part  of  that 

"  'Loveliness 
Which  once  she  made  more  lovely,' 

and  we  would  have  enshrined  her  in  that  radi 
ant  Valhalla  of  Love,  to  await  the  immortal 
greeting. 

"But,  O  !  sir,  to  lose  her  so !  We  could  not 
believe  we  had  lost  her !  Where  could  she 
have  gone?  No  swampy  glade,  no  tangled 
thicket,  no  hidden  nook  or  wilderness  recess — 
no,  not  one  hollow  place,  or  well,  or  stream, 
in  all  this  region  but  has  been  searched  for 
her  again  and  again ;  yet  never  so  much  as  a 
ribbon,  or  shred  of  lace,  or  tatter  of  her  little 
dress,  or  a  bit  of  lint  or  floss,  or  strand  of 
golden  hair,  has  any  one  found.  The  bird  in 
his  flight  leaves  a  plume  behind  upon  the  nest ; 
the  lamb,  pressing  through  brambles,  leaves  a 
woolly  figment ;  but  she  in  her  passing  left  no 
sign. 


'Phemie.  83 

"The  Angel  of  Life  gone,  the  Angel  of 
Death  came  instead,  and  our  desolate  house 
was  made  more  desolate.  The  babe  faded  into 
that  realm  to  which,  even  from  the  first,  she 
seemed  to  belong,  and  where  our  tender  chil 
dren,  having  safely  entered,  seem  to  us  babes 
eternal — the  ineffable  and  unchangeable.  The 
heart-broken  mother  waned,  and  soon  followed 
her  child.  Three  years  the  grass  has  crept 
in  springtime  over  the  longer,  beside  the 
shorter,  grave  in  Ardoise  Churchyard. 

"Then,  Robert  having  to  be  abroad  during 
the  day,  I  was  left  much  in  solitude — and  you 
know,  sir,  solitary  life  is  not  good  for  us  if 
we  are  confined  to  it  closely.  But  always  I 
have  felt  as  if  she  was  near,  and  I  have  been 
in  the  mood  of  expectancy.  Still  I  look  for 
'Phemie's  corning.  If  I  fancy  a  light  tap 
comes  on  the  door,  quickly  my  heart  leaps  up, 
and  I  say,  'It  is  our  darling !'  When  I  take  my 
slow  way  up  yonder  slope,  in  some  evening  of 
early  October,  when  the  far  gleam  lingers  in 
the  west,  growing  ever  dimmer,  and  the  young 
moon  hangs  above  the  hill,  and  the  short,  thick 
grasses  grow  dark  and  cool — then,  while  a 
feeling  of  mingled  hope  and  longing  takes  pos 
session  of  me,  I  dream  I  see  her  coming 


84  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

towards  me,  and  I  reach  out  my  aching  arms 
to  enfold  her ! 

"Sometimes,  when  the  wintry  shadows  have 
fallen  early,  and  I  sit  lonely,  waiting  for  my 
son's  return,  I  brighten  up  the  fire  and  set  the 
table  freshly,  as  if  for  a  guest ;  then  I  start 
up,  half-believing  that  I  hear  the  sound  of  her 
light  feet  on  the  crispy  snow  outside. 

"What  delays  her  ?  She  must  know  the  fire 
side  awaits  her ;  that  here  linger  her  sad  father 
and  the  lonely  old  man  that  loved  her  so — 
who  still  loves  her !" 

He  paused,  gave  me  a  piteous  look,  and 
resumed:  "O,  sir,  she  must  come — she  must 
come,  some  time !  Yet  where  can  she  have 
gone  to  have  staid  so  long?  Surely  no  ill  can 
have  happened  to  her.  No  gipsy  band  was 
known  to  have  been  in  the  neighborhood ;  and 
she  must,  if  seized  and  taken  by  force,  have 
uttered  her  cry ;  yet  no  one  heard  it.  No  al 
lurement  on  earth  could  have  tempted  her  lov 
ing  heart  to  leave  us.  Had  she  fallen  into 
them,  the  waters  of  our  many-winding  creek 
could  not  have  borne  her  out  to  sea — some 
where,  in  cove,  or  on  outlying  point,  or  along 
muddy  shore,  the  receding  tide  must  have  left 
her.  Somewhere,  in  brake  or  bush,  on  knoll, 


'Phemie.  85 

or  in  hollow,  we  must  have  found  her,  if  near 
us  she  had  perished. 

"Sir" — and  the  muscles  about  eyes  and 
mouth  twitched,  while  his  voice  became  shrill, 
and  the  gleam  lightened  his  eyes — "How  can 
she  have  perished  ?  It  is  quite  impossible !" 

Then,  while  his  face  brightened,  his  voice 
sank  to  an  intense  whisper :  "I  believe  she  is 
alive !  I  know  she  is !  I  have  seen  her !  Many 
a  time,  just  at  sunset,  have  I  beheld  her  flying 
figure  down  by  yonder  shore.  She  has  skipped 
airily  along,  just  as  she  used  to  do  in  the  years 
before  she  went  away ;  and  as  she  has  gone 
before  me  through  the  furze  and  alders,  I  have 
seen  the  dancing  gleam  of  her  garments,  and 
her  golden  hair;  but  before  I  could  reach  her 
she  vanished  away.  She  is  our  Kilmeny,  and 
she  haunts  yonder  slope  and  shore !  Often,  in 
calm  summer  evenings,  I  hear  her  away  down 
by  the  brook,  with  snatches  of  song  and  wild 
aerial  laughter.  But  will  she  not  come  back 
to  be  at  home  with  us  ?  Loving  heart  that  she 
is,  why  does  she  not  come  to  me,  who  so  long 
for  her?" 

His  plaintive  voice  ceased,  and,  with  an  air 
of  dejection,  he  returned  to  the  gate,  and  sur 
veyed  the  highway,  whereon  no  creature  was 
visible. 


86  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

As  I  sauntered  on  toward  Ardoise  village, 
musing  how  thought  so  similar  should  come 
to  poet  and  madman,  I  crooned  the  ballad  of 
that  "sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew  beside  a 
human  door:" 

"Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 

And  never  looks  behind, 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind." 


Bental 


i. 


"Hark  !     'T  is  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain 
High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate — 
Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 

alert,  elate, 

Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow 
New  England's  poet-laureate 
Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again." 

— T.  E.  Aldrich. 

I  AWOKE  this  morning  to  the  silver  flute  of 
the  robin,  as  that  industrious  minstrel  des 
canted  of  freedom  and  cheerfulness  in  the 
bare  apple-tree  outside  my  window.  How  my 
past  and  present  in  the  very  ether  of  love  were 
blended  by  that  artless,  reassuring  strain !  In 
the  old  lyric  measure  he  seemed  to  be  repeat 
ing  the  enamored  Hebrew's  rhapsody,  and  say 
ing:  "Now,  indeed  the  winter  is  over  and 
gone;  the  snow  has  departed;  ceased  are  the 
chilly  rains.  Softly,  newly  green  is  the  earth ; 
the  elm  and  maple  are  putting  forth  their  ten- 
87 


Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

der  leaves;  in  the  fields  you  love  the  flowers 
reappear ;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  has 
come.  Be  glad !  for  the  violet  is  in  its  olden 
scented  nook,  and  the  arbutus  is  alive,  and  like 
a  new-born  infant  creeps  on  the  floor  of  the 
forest."  How  can  my  heart  fail  responsive 
to  such  a  call !  The  season  that  wakens  all 
things  vital,  with  its  indefinable  charm  is  upon 
us.  Somehow  it  is  enough  for  us  that  spring 
is  at  hand.  What  if  we  are  depleted  by  the 
days  of  darkness  and  storm?  We  will  be  de 
jected  no  longer!  The  sap  of  the  world  bub 
bles  up,  the  blood  of  the  heart  warms,  the 
ichor  of  joy  oozes  at  a  thousand  pores ;  the 
first  faint  shows  have  the  prestige  and  bespeak 
the  fullness  of  the  well-bloomed  summer ;  we 
smile,  for  we  know  the  pageant  that  is  at  hand. 
Soon  shall  be  enacted  that  magic  seen  and 
spoken  so  aptly  by  the  poet  of  the  South  :* 

"Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
In  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

*  Henry  Timrod. 


Vernal  Notes.  89 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there 's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 

That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the 

gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 


go  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Still  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would 

start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
'Behold  me !    I  am  May  !'  " 


II. 


Ye  who  put  your  faith  in  visions  of  the 
Muse,  and  of  such  revelations  of  musical  god 
desses  as  Thalia,  Urania,  or  even  the  Scottish 
Coila,  listen  to  the  story  that  I  shall  tell  you : 

Your  would-be  entertainer — perhaps  your 
brother  of  the  quill — had  a  singular  rencontre 
not  long  since,  when  he  had  gone  out  for  an 
evening's  walk,  hoping  to  get  from  the  hand 
of  nature's  sweet  apothecary  a  fresh  bottle  of 
ozone.  While  his  nerves  were  being  toned, 
and  his  chest  was  being  expanded,  and  the 


Vernal  Notes.  91 

knots  and  nettles  were  being  taken  out  of  him, 
whom  should  he  see  crossing  the  pasture 
knolls  wherever  their  mossy  nebs  were  stuck 
above  the  snow  (for  this  was  before  the  ad 
vent  of  June's  leanness,  and  an  extraordinary 
rainy  season,  so  that  there  was  not  so  much 
as  one  green  blade)  but  a  solitary,  fagged, 
and  bedraggled  maiden,  who  was  nevertheless 
wildly,  bewitchingly  beautiful.  Tired,  though 
she  was,  and  dispirited,  I  never  saw  a  fairer 
face,  nor  a  more  queenly  bearing;  cheek  and 
brow  showed  the  rose  and  the  lily,  and  her  dis 
heveled  locks  the  thready  gold,  where  its 
abundance  fell  over  her  white  neck  and  shoul 
ders.  Noting,  under  all  her  weariness,  her 
sylphid  shape  and  native  airy  movement,  quite 
unlike  any  of  our  village  maidens,  he  drew  up 
and  accosted  her.  "Gentle  lady,  may  I  bid 
you  a  good  evening,  and  inquire  whither  you 
wander  so  far  from  the  public  way,  and  why 
you  are  so  strangely  clad?"  Fixing  her  eyes 
on  him — eyes  so  wildly,  wonderfully  light 
some  and  beautiful,  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
such — she  answered  him  in  accents  as  clear 
and  musical  as  any  he  ever  heard :  "I  love  the 
wilderness ;  it  is  my  home.  I  steal  harmlessly 
into  quiet  dwellings;  I  wander  over  old  bat- 


92  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

tlefields ;  hover  above  the  cataracts ;  crown  me 
with  wreaths  of  pine  and  maple;  track  the 
raftsmen  down  foamy  rivers,  and  the  voy 
agers  into  the  Far  West ;  I  leap  with  glad  chil 
dren,  and  dance  in  groves  with  light-hearted 
maidens ;  I  haunt  many  places,  from  the  prai 
ries  to  the  lakes,  and  the  Laurentian  River; 
but  I  build  my  house  among  green  leaves.  I 
am  the  Canadian  Muse,  banished  from  my 
native  country  and  wandering  down  to  the 
Acadian  lands,  to  the  shores  that  answer  to 
my  beloved  hills  and  forests.  Truly,  I  have 
found  the  land, — what  I  had  heard  of  its  be 
ing, — a  choice  region  of  varied  loveliness. 
No  wonder  if  men  love  it ;  and  from  all  other 
places  whither  they  have  strayed  turn  their 
footsteps  back,  that  they  may  once  more  be 
hold  it !"  Would  you  not,  reader,  have  been 
astonished,  as  was  Felix? — who  replied:  "But 
you  have  passed  the  boundary  of  the  country 
that  claims  you,  and  are  now  in  a  strange, 
though  a  goodly  and  noble,  land,  albeit  it 
once  formed  a  part  of  your  cherished  Acadia. 
Why,  dear  lady,  have  you  left  that  youthful 
nation,  just  now  in  its  hopeful  spring,  free  and 
unimcumbered,  where,  if  ever,  the  native  Muse 
should  be  entertained  ?"  "Alas  !"  she  faltered, 


Vernal  Notes.  93 

— the  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes,  while  she 
looked  so  lovely  in  her  grief  I  longed  to  soothe 
and  comfort  her;  "I  have  been  discouraged. 
All  is  beautiful  without,  and  the  soul  within 
me  reflects  that  beauty ;  but  it  is  not  enough, — 
my  soul  hungers  for  approval  and  human  sym 
pathy.  Yet  the  poet  is  a  thing  apart,  by  the 
constitution  of  his  nature,  and  the  force  of  a 
will  stronger  than  his  own  ;*  and  so  it  follows 
that  men  will  look  askance  and  strangely  at 
him.  Lacking  all  other  occasion,  they  call  this 
almost  a  crime,  that  he  is  a  forsaker  of  his 
kind,  and  much  by  himself.  Then,  where  is 
the  poet  who  is  content  to  sing  long  for  sing 
ing's  sake,  who  wishes  to  be  heard  of  none, 
and  who  sorrows  not  at  despite  and  cold  dis- 


*"Men  consort  in  camp  and  town, 
But  the  poet  dwells  alone. 
God,  who  gave  to  him  the  lyre, 
Of  all  mortals  the  desire, 
For  all  breathing  men's  behoof, 
Straitly  charged  him,  'Sit  aloof :' 

Yet  Saadi  loved  the  sons  of  men, — 
No  churl  immured  in  cave  or  den; 
In  bower  and  hall  he  wants  them  all 
Nor  can  dispense  with  Persia  for  his  audience." 

— Emerson. 


94  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

suasion?  I  have  flown  from  long  neglect. 
Besides,  there  has  recently  come  from  abroad 
a  spirit  called  Scientific  Criticism,  that  scorns 
me,  proclaiming  that  I  am  inconsistent  and  out 
of  harmony  with  the  time.  I  have  been  in 
structed  that  there  is  no  need  of  me ;  that,  in 
deed,  my  presence  is  anomalous  and  not  de 
sired,  or  desirable;  that  nothing  distinctive 
exists  in  my  character,  and  nothing  heroic  in 
my  spirit.  We  want  dissecters,  engineers, 
analysts,  not  orators  or  poets.  The  earth  is 
to  be  ripped  up,  re-examined,  reconstructed ; 
not  talked  about,  ever  so  beautifully.  And 
what — I  deemed  they  said — is  this  Canada, 
anyway,  but  an  extension  of  England ;  and 
what  do  we  presume  to  have  to  ourselves,  and 
from  ourselves,  alone?  Are  we  not  well  pro 
vided  for,  if  poetry  is  desired?  Can  we  hope 
to  excel  Shakespeare  or  rival  Milton? — and 
it  is  folly  to  seek  for  less.  We  tre  to  expect 
no  native,  no  individual  voices ;  or  to  drown 
them  in  the  heartiness  of  our  mocking  dis 
praise.  There  are  no  birds  singing  among 
these  trees,  no  flowers  blooming  in  our  fields, 
but  British  bards  have  sung  them  better  than 
can  any  fictitious  native  muse.  Besides,  we 
have  of  song  a  sufficiency ;  the  bobolinks  have 


Vernal  Notes.  95 

long  ago  had  their  caroling  season ;  now  let 
them  betake  to  the  rice-swamps  and  feed  them 
selves,  while  we  who  have  leisure  for  such 
things  reawaken  foregone  melodies.  So,  what 
have  I  and  my  followers  to  hope  for  ?  We  are 
to  be  ignored ;  or,  if  attention  is  called  to  us, 
we  must  be  objects  of  mistrust  and  disdain. 
There  is  my  friend,  Davin,  who  told  me  that 
he  pleaded  in  the  House  at  Ottawa  for  my 
favorite,  Lampman,  that,  being  in  the  govern 
ment  employ,  they  might  award  him  an  office 
more  congenial  to  his  mind,  and  affording  him 
more  leisure.  But  they  said :  'Are  not  his 
wares  on  the  market,  in  competition  with 
others?  We  can  not  afford  to  bestow  patron 
age;  there  are  too  many  to  claim  it.  Who  is 
to  decide  upon  merit?  Roberts  might  come 
forward  with  his  claim,  and  Campbell,  and 
Scott;  and  who  can  tell  where  this  thing  will 
end?'  So,  henceforth,  there  is  commended  to 
me,  on  native  ground,  nothing  save  self-sup 
pression  ;  while  that  ground  is  being  pre 
empted  in  the  interest  of  a  certain  canonized 
spirit,  known  as  Epical  Antiquity;  and  men 
are  to  be  instructed  to  admire  more  wisely, 
and  to  distrust  their  own  ability  to  produce 
worthy  of  admiration;  but  rather  to  devote 


96  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

their  paralytic  energies  to  the  payment  of  a 
well-known  debt  due  the  elders  of  song.  So, 
as  it  is  in  my  nature  to  vanish  from  men  whose 
words  and  deeds  are  harsh,  and  whose  hearts 
are  cold,  I  have  fled  from  my  country  and  am 
seeking  the  South,  in  hope  of  a  blander,  more 
cheery,  and  open  welcome."  I  moved  forward 
and  grasped  her  hand :  "Lady,  go  no  farther ! 
Whom  could  I  more  gladly  meet  with?  If 
you  had  not  another  friend  in  the  whole  of 
creation,  you  may  beheld  one  in  me."  So  I 
brought  her  with  me  into  the  village ;  and, 
reader,  this  fair  being,  whom  I  have  learned 
to  love,  at  least  as  a  sister,  is  entertained  at 
my  home ;  while  I  am  more  and  more  delighted 
with  her.  For  the  present,  she  will  not  leave 
me ;  nor  will  she  go  farther  South,  until  she 
finds  the  iron  powers  can  not  be  propitiated. 
Like  Dante,  it  may  be  her  doom  to  wander  in 
exile;  yet,  like  him,  she  has  a  longing  to  re 
turn  home,  if  she  can  do  so  honorably.  So,  if 
the  gentlemen  above  Ottawa,  and  elsewhere, 
whose  frowns  sent  her  away,  will  make  the 
fair  amende  and  give  her  a  smiling  welcome, 
she  may  consent  to  return.  And  if  the  Society 
of  Canadian  Letters  at  Montreal  will  remit 
half  her  car  fare,  Felix  will  furnish  the  residue, 


Vernal  Notes.  97 

and  will  put  her  in  their  hands  in  good  flesh 
and  with  unimpaired  beauty. 

III. 
MARCH. 

(IN  THE  SOUTH.) 

From  Theophile  Gautier. 

Yet  where  changeful  man  is  found, 
Nature  keeps  her  ancient  round  : 
March,  while  laughing  at  our  cares, 
Silently  the  spring  prepares. 

Slyly,  ere  the  daisies  peep, 
From  their  coverlet  of  sleep, 
Comes  the  former  of  the  buds, 
Chiseling  their  golden  studs. 

Cunning  dresser !  on  he  goes, 
Under  vineyard,  orchard-close ; 
With  his  swan's-puff  snowily 
Powders  every  almond-tree. 

Nature  in  her  bed  reposes  : 
He  goes  down  among  her  roses, 
Laces  all  their  new  buds  in 
Corsages  of  velvet  green, 

While  he  solfeggios  sings 
To  the  blackbirds, — lo !  he  flings 
Snowdrops  to  the  greening  meadows, 
Violets  to  the  purpling  shadows. 


98  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

By  the  side  of  cressy  brook, 
Where  the  stag  with  startled  look 
Ceases  drinking,  he  compels 
Scented  lilies'  silver  bells. 

Rude  without,  but  deft  within, 
He  hath  arts  our  love  to  win ; 
Winter's  hand  he  gently  looses, 
Jocund  guests  he  introduces. 

Soon — his  secret  work  complete — 
April's  coming  he  doth  greet : 
"Dearest  Spring!"  he,  smiling,  says, 
"Bring  in  your  delightful  days." 


IV. 

O  Voice !  that  of  old  we  heard,  singing  this 
song  of  the  hopeful  season, — 

"The  winter  is  over  and  gone, 

The  thrush  whistles  sweet  on  the  spray, 
The  turtle  breathes  out  her  soft  moan, 
The  lark  mounts  and  warbles  away." 

Among  all  the  sounds  for  which  we  wait  and 
listen  shall  we  never  hear  thee  more?  Will 
thy  peculiar  tone,  that  before  we  never  lacked, 
still  be  missed  by  us ;  and  with  it  shall  not  the 
Spring  have  lost  something  of  its  ancient 
melody?  And  thou,  to  whom  that  voice  be- 


Vernal  Notes.  99 

longed, — shall  we  look  upon  a  new  garnished 
world,  and  into  yon  crystal  cup  of  the  sky, 
brimming  with  glory  and  delight ;  shall  we  see 
the  swallows  come  again,  look  into  the  face 
of  the  dear  dandelion,  the  arbutus,  and  the 
rose,  and  behold  the  gamboling  of  the  young 
lambs, — 

"And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden  snake 
Like  unimprison'd  flames  out  of  their  trance 
awake ;" 

yet  see  thee  no  longer?  This  beautiful  world 
was  ever  dear  to  thee,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
springtime  was  ever  in  thy  heart,  even  when 
thy  days  were  hinting  upon  the  "sere  and  yel 
low  leaf,"  and  the  first  flakes  of  Time's  win 
ter  had  begun  to  visit  thy  brow.  Thou  wast 
a  mother  beloved,  rich  in  all  the  goodliness 
of  life  and  the  joy  of  being;  the  voice  of  the 
brooding  dove  was  ever  in  the  land  while  thou 
didst  hover  over  that  nest  we  call — Home. 
Thou  didst  not  lose  out  of  thy  life  that  sensible 
charm  which  is  never  lost  out  of  the  inex 
haustible  universe :  we  shall  not  deem  that  thou 
could'st  ever  cease  to  look  and  listen,  to  feel 
and  to  reflect.  Thou  hadst  the  soul  of  a  poet, 
living  out  thy  years  in  silent  accumulation  of 
thy  sentiments  and  emotions ;  thou  hadst  the 


ioo  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

brave  and  buoyant  heart,  and,  though  thou 
didst  not  bespeak  them,  all  gentle  thoughts 
and  memories,  all  beautiful  imaginations  did 
wait  upon  thee  and  were  thine. 

But  O,  it  is  so  strange  to  miss  thee  now ! 
The  spring  comes,  but  thou  comest  not. 

"The  south  wind  brings 

Life,  sunshine,  and  desire, 
And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 

Breathes  aromatic  fire; 
But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 
The  lost,  the  lost  he  can  not  restore ; 
And  looking  over  the  hills  I  mourn 
The  darling  who  shall  not  return." 

Thy  grave,  mother,  was  made  at  the  thresh 
old  of  the  spring,  and  after  a  sadder  and  more 
tempestuous  voyage  than  we  deemed  we  might 
have  taken  together.  The  red  clods  of  that 
Acadian  hillside,  with  the  white  of  Easter 
lilies,  and  of  untimely  April  snows,  were 
mingled  together  over  thy  quiet  bosom ;  and 
now  around  thee  the  grasses  and  flowers  thou 
didst  love  are  springing. 

V. 

"  'T  is  past ;  the  iron  North  has  spent  his  rage ; 

Stern  winter  now  resigns  the  lengthening  day; 
The  stormy  howlings  of  the  winds  assuage, 
And  warm  o'er  ether  western  breezes  play. 


Vernal  Notes.  101 

loosed  from  the  bands  of  frost,  the  verdant  ground 
Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green, 

Again  puts  forth  her  flowers ;  and  all  around 
Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  spring  is  seen." 

So  sang  the  young  poet  of  Kinnesswood,* 
filled  with  the  joy  of  vernal  seasons  gone; 
while  his  wan  face  and  wasted  figure,  from 
which  health  had  departed  forever,  gave  em 
phasis  to  the  plaint  of  his  expressive  muse : 

"Thus  have  I  walked  along  the  dewy  lawn ; 

My  frequent  foot  the  blooming  wild  hath  worn ; 
Before  the  lark  I  've  sung  the  beauteous  dawn, 
And  gathered  health  from  all  the  gales  of  morn. 

Now,  spring  returns :  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known; 

Dim  in  my  breast  life's  dying  taper  burns, 

And  all  the  joys  of  life  and  health  are  flown/' 

Spring  never  comes  to  me  but  with  the 
memory  of  that  Scottish  minstrel, — pathetic 
in  his  song  as  in  his  fate;  a  memory  sweeter 
than  the  wild  flowers  that  spring  in  the  Port- 
moak  Churchyard,  where  his  grave  was  made 
and  his  cenotaph  reared.  They  tell  us  that 
"he  was  pious  and  cheerful  to  the  last;"  and 
that  in  the  Bible,  found  lying  upon  his  pillow, 

*  Michael  Bruce. 


102  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

were  found  marked  the  words  of  the  prophet : 
"Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan 
him."  His  were  twenty-one  golden  and  fra 
grant  years. 

I  think  of  one  who  resembled  him,  in  his 
longing,  his  pious  resignation  amid  dire  dis 
tresses, — if  not  in  his  gift  of  song,  so  un 
adorned,  so  simple  and  sincere; — John  Mc- 
Pherson,  the  consumptive  Acadian  school 
master,  who,  amid  the  rigors  of  a  Nova  Scotia 
winter,  with  the  snow  sifting  through  the 
chinks  of  his  miserable  cabin,  sang  his  "wood- 
notes  wild,"  with  something  of  the  sweetness 
and  artlessness  of  a  Bruce,  or  a  Logan,  and 
uttered  a  chord  of  the  strain  unutterable  in  his 
"Longing  for  Spring:" 

"I    long   for    spring — enchanting   spring! 

Her  sunshine  and  soft  airs. 
That  bless  the  fever'd  brow,  and  bring 

A  balm  to  sooth  our  cares ; 
I  long  for  all  her  dear  delights, — 

Her  greening  forest  bowers, 
Her  world  of  cheerful  sounds  and  sights, 

Her  song-birds  and  her  flowers." 

While  the  "brumal  king"  has  maintained  his 
rude  dominion,  the  poet  has  not  been  unmind 
ful  of  his  permitted  delights, — albeit  in  his 


Vernal  Notes.  103 

case  largely  imaginative, — he  can  not  longer 
restrain  his  desire  for  warmer  airs  and  milder 
skies : 

''Then  while  the  snow  drifts  o'er  the  moor, 

And  drowns  the  traveler's  cry, 
The  charities  of  poor  to  poor 

Go  sweetly  up  on  high ; 
Then,  while  the  mighty  winds  accord 

With  Mind's  eternal  lyre, 
Our  trembling  hearts  confess  the  Lord 

Who  touch'd  our  lips  with  fire. 

Yet  give  me  spring — inspiring  spring! 

The  season  of  our  trust, 
That  comes  with  heaven-born  hope,  to  bring 

New  life  to  slumbering  dust; 
Restore,  from  winter's  stormy  shocks, 

The  singing  of  the  birds, 
The  bleating  of  the  yeaned  flocks, 

The  lowing  of  the  herds. 

I  long  to  see  the  ice  give  way, 

The  streams  begin  to  flow, 
And  some  benignant,  vernal  day 

Disperse  the  latest  snow ; 
I  long  to  see  yon  lake  resume 

Its  breeze-kissed,  azure  crest, 
And  hear  the  lonely  wild  fowl  boom 

Along  its  moonlit  breast. 


104  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Ah,  I  remember  one  still  night 

That  blessed  the  world  of  yore, 
A  fair  maid,  with  an  eye  of  light, 

Was  with  me  on  that  shore! 
I  look  upon  the  same  calm  brow, 

While  sweeter  feelings  throng; 
She,  wedded,  sits  beside  me  now, 

And  listens  to  my  song. 

The  robin  has  returned  again, 

To  rest  his  wearied  wing, 
But  makes  no  music  in  the  glen, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  sing; 
The  bluebird  chants  no  jocund  strain, 

The  tiny  wildwood  throng 
Still  of  the  searching  blasts  complain, 

And  make  no  joyous  song. 

The  plowman  cheering  on  his  team 

At  cheerful  morning  prime, 
The  milkmaid  singing  of  her  dream 

At  tranquil  evening  time; 
The  shrill  frog  piping  from  the  pool, 

The  swallow's  twittering  cry, 
The  teacher's  quiet  walk  from  school, 

Require  a  kinder  sky. 

O  month  of  many  smiles  and  tears ! 

Return  with  all  thy  flowers! 
Come,  with  the  light  of  astral  spheres, 

To  gild  Acadia's  bowers! 


Vernal  Notes.  105 

Young  children  go  not  forth  to  play, 

Life  hath  no  voice  of  glee. 
Till  thy  return,  O  genial  May ! 

Bring  back  the  murmuring  bee." 


VI. 

I  lift  my  eyes  from  this  rustic  volume,  with 
its  tattered  and  faded  garb,  repeating  over 
again  this  early  song  of  my  loved  Acadia: 

"My  cheek  is  wan  with  slow  disease, 

My  heart  is  full  of  care, 
And,  restless  for  a  moment's  ease, 
I  pine  for  sun  and  air. 

I  long  to  see  the  grass  spring  up, 
The  first  green  corn  appear; 

The  violet  ope  its  purple  cup, 
And  shed  its  glistening  tear." 

Simple  and  unpretentious  songs ;  not  the 
noblest,  not  the  most  ornate,  the  lovers  of  the 
spring  have  sung ;  yet  they  touch  me,  for  they 
are  the  product  of  genuine  emotion.  I  have 
tomes  of  greater  elegance,  and  strains  tran 
scending  these  in  lyric  fire,  evincing  a  more 
cunning  art  and  a  subtler  hand,  yet  no  deeper 
sincerity;  for  the  masters,  and  the  apter  dis- 


io6  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ciples  I  secure  the  incense  of  praise,  when  I 
bring  them  out  before  my  friends.  But  in 
solitude  I  look  upon  this  homely  and  neglected 
book,  you  may  despise,  and  a  tear  falls  un 
bidden.  My  heart  turns  back  to  this  forgotten 
muse  of  the  wilderness,  who  restores  the  hopes 
and  dreams  of  my  youth ;  and  whose  humble 
ambition  it  was  to  inspire  some  happier  min 
strel,  who  should  "strike  the  harp  of  Acadia 
with  less  feeble  hands."  His  notes  come  to 
me,  like  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  in  spring,  writh 
something  of  the  primitive  sweetness  and 
plaintiveness  of  songs  of  an  elder  time. 

Here  was  one  who  truly  longed  for  the 
spring,  and  who  had  greater  reason  than  some 
poets  have  had  for  this  longing;  for  was  he 
not  doomed  to  a  miserable  pallet,  and  to  the 
spitting  of  his  life-blood,  throughout  the  mel 
ancholy  winter,  and  to  the  wasting  of  the 
flesh,  while  through  the  rifts  of  his  wretched 
unclapboarded  cabin  the  snow  sifted  upon  his 
coverlet !  An  Acadian  minstrel,  say  you,  of 
the  nascent  tribe,  whose  voice  is  newly  tuned 
after  the  rude  shocks  of  a  Nova  Scotia  win 
ter;  whose  song  is  rather  primitive  and  curi 
ous,  but  not  otherwise  remarkable.  This  will 
do  for  romance.  Literally,  a  poor,  sick  school- 


Vernal  Notes.  107 

master,  with  a  turned  head,  and  ambitions 
hopeless  of  any  realization ;  a  dreamy,  helpless 
man,  with  a  wife  and  child  depending  upon 
his  life ; — one  not  very  dollar-wise,  without  the 
traditional  silver  spoon,  and  living  in  a  new, 
unbroken  country,  crude  and  provincial, 
wherein  the  chief  problem  must  be  how  to 
keep  the  literal  wolf  from  the  door,  and  to  bar 
out  hunger  and  cold.  To  get  and  keep  a  roof 
over  his  head,  and  to  get  a  crust  ahead  against 
the  day  of  starvation,  while  he  sought  to  in 
struct  the  rustics  of  the  neighborhood,  some 
times  against  their  will, — this  was  his  suffi 
cient  task ;  but  a  poet  he  must  deem  himself, 
for  this  at  heart  he  was,  and,  pity's  sake ! 
would  there  and  then  devote  himself,  soul  and 
body,  to  the  Muses !  Indeed  he  never  surren- 
'dered  this  dream  of  childhood;  yet,  though  he 
did  a  deal  of  pining,  most  of  his  songs  are  full 
of  a  reasonable  trust  and  cheerfulness.  Poesy 
was  the  one  star  set  in  his  sky,  which  went  not 
down  behind  the  dark  wall  of  the  forest  until 
the  sinking  of  that  other  star  which  was  his 
life.  The  guerdon  that  brings  ease  and  lux 
ury,  or  even  comfort,  time  could  not  on  him 
bestow.  Let  us  not  harshly  blame  him. 

"The  light  that  led  astray, 
Was  light  from  heaven." 


io8  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

So  it  is  I  hearken  back  to  catch  again  a 
few  snatches  of  his  tearful  song, — his  phoebe- 
note  at  dawn,  preluding  a  rapture-chorus  yet 
to  be  heard  from  minstrels  more  complex  and 
various, — hinting  at  art's  maturer  triumphs. 
His  compass  may  have  been  a  narrow  one,  and 
his  notes  few ;  but  his  song  was  genuine  and 
without  affectation,  full  of  his  heart  and  fra 
grant,  artless  in  its  simplicity  as  the  joy  or  sor 
row  of  a  child.  I  hear  through  him  the  brooks 
and  birds  of  my  native  country,  where  they 
abide  remotely  familiar,  and  filled  with  an  in 
definable  sweetness.  "The  love  of  flowers," 
as  he  said,  "was  deep  within  his  soul,"  and 
every  "wilding  of  the  waste"  was  dear  to  him, 
as  a  babe  with  eyes  appealing  from  the  bosom 
of  his  mother.  Ever  at  this  season  I  hear  him 
singing  of  their  swift  return,  and  hail  with- 
him  the  budding  of  new  leaves, — 

"Waving  their  Eden-scented  wings 
To  bid  the  earth  rejoice." 

His  more  than  good  will  sought  out  all  living 
creatures;  he  was  at  one  with  dwellers  in  the 
sylvan  abodes;  his  most  passionate  yearning 
was  toward  all  fair  ideal  existence.  For  is 
not  the  poet's  heart  a  golden  bowl  full  of  life's 
richest  wine?  He  is  lavish  of  it,  for  he  does 


Vernal  Notes.  109 

not  fear  it  can  easily  be  spent.  So  was  this 
forest  minstrel's  spirit  full  of  that  wine — that 
is  called  Love,  and  he  poured  it  out  over  all 
things.  He  made  a  sanctuary  of  the  forest, 
and  of  the  solitary  heath  and  the  secluded 
glen ;  and  on  the  leaf-browned  carpet  of  his 
native  woods,  where,  under  beech  and  maple 
and  pine  creeps  the  Mayflower, — 

"Delight  and  wonder  of  a  thousand  eyes !" — 

it  made  him  kneel  with  a  worship  and  rever 
ence  warm  as  any.  It  was  a  consecrating  dew 
on  his  native  fields ;  on  lake  and  river — his 
own  dear  Lily,  and  the  wider  Rossianol  (lake 
of  the  robin)  ;  on  the  ripples  of  Lahave  and 
Liverpool,  and  on  his  Fairy  Stream.  Its 
pearls  fell  on  the  brier  rose  and  the  violet, 
and  every  blossom  gilding  our  Acadian  fields. 
Chide  not  my  praise  of  this  simple  minstrel, 
whose  heart  was  so  pitiful  to  all,  and  whose 
life  was  so  solicitous  of  pity.  The  mightiest 
of  the  bards  affirms, — 

"One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin ;" 

and,  if  we  may  credit  the  writer  of  his  me 
moirs,  the  story  of  poor  McPherson  "has 
many  touches  of  nature." 


no  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Ah,  could  I  have  known  thee,  sweet  and 
tender  poet !  in  the  day  of  thy  longing  and 
sorrow,  I  would  have  given  thee  cheer,  and 
have  taken  the  blossoms  of  thy  early  poesy 
under  my  most  gracious  and  loving  tendance, 
that  they  might  haply  have  known  a  gladder 
and  a  sunnier  growth.  But  thou  dost  belong, 
in  thy  sympathies  at  least,  to  a  precious  com 
pany,  and  art  of  kin  with  others,  who,  after 
all  their  sighing  and  despairing,  as  time  has 
proved,  "were  not  born  for  death ;"  who,  like 
thyself,  were  singers  and  lovers  of  song. 
Thinking  of  thee,  I  seem  to  blend  with  thine 
his  plaintive  memory  whose  complaint  of  im 
mortal  pathos  might  have  moved  thee.  Yes, 
for  Michael  Bruce  was  of  thy  brotherhood ; 
and  Timrod  and  Lanier  could  share  thy  long 
ing  and  improve  thine  art.  And  another !  ah, 
can  I  forget  him ! — who  yearned  also  for  "the 
delicate-footed  spring,"  to  tread  out  fragrance 
and  beauty  from  the  bosom  of  the  awakened 
earth,  and  on  his  Scottish  moorland  invoked 
her  in  language  most  appealing  for  pathos  and 
loveliness : 

"O  God  !  make  free 
This  barren  shackled  earth,  so  deadly  cold, — 

Breathe  gently  forth  thy  spring  till  winter  flies 
In  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet  bold, 


Vernal  Notes.  in 

While  she  performs  her  'custom'd  charities ; 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is  bare, — 
O  God !  for  one  clear  day,  a  snowdrop,  and  sweet 
air!" 

Poor  McPherson !  Very  gentle  was  his 
spirit,  and  very  pathetic  his  history.  Sad,  we 
may  think,  that  his  rejoicing  in  the  bloom  and 
brightness  of  this  breathing  world  ended  so 
soon;  but,  from  his  place,  more  congenial  to 
song,  and  singing  souls,  it  may  not  seem  sad; 
for  there,  we  deem, 

"Everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-withering  flowers." 

They  laid  him  to  rest,  at  evening,  on  the  bank 
of  the  beautiful  Lake  Tupper,  whereof  he  sang 
in  the  sweet  verses  we  have  recited,  and  where 
his  quiet  figure,  grown  familiar,  would,  dur 
ing  his  life,  scarcely  have  startled  the  wild 
fowl  from  its  margin.  The  setting  sun  shone 
into  his  open  grave. 

VII. 

"Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year  delaying  long : 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more." 

— Tennyson. 

"The  iron  north  hath  spent  its  rage,"  after 
a  reign  of  unusual  rigor  and  duration ;  but  the 


H2  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

gentler  season  comes  not  with  decision.  We 
waken  to  the  peevish  day,  and  behold  a  gen 
eral  blankness.  Everything  is  dowie  and  gray ; 
a  gray  air,  filled  with  a  faint  odor  of  budding 
things ;  a  gray  blanket  of  mist,  fringed  with 
silent  rain.  Through  this  everything  is  gray : 
the  fence  rails  and  pickets  are  gray;  the  barn 
in  yonder  field  is  gray;  so  are  the  apple-trees, 
from  the  bottom  of  each  scabby  bole  to  their 
topmost  twigs ;  the  stubble  fields  are  gray,  save 
where  in  low  moist  places  a  tender  tint  of 
green  is  coming,  like  a  flush  of  delight  on  the 
earth's  sensitive  cheek ;  the  little  birds  that 
come  in  sight  are  all  gray,  on  this  sober-suited 
morning.  But  this  Quaker-colored  season,  so 
recluse  and  frugal,  is  full  of  unseen  treasure, 
and  is  prelusive  of  a  more  than  Roman  splen 
dor — a  very  papal  magnificence,  soon  to  be. 
Under  the  gray  blanket  of  the  mist  the  infant 
spring  is  being  softly  born. 

I  never  longed  more  for  its  coming.  The 
russet  fields  never  seemed  fairer  than  now, 
when  snows  and  icy  airs  take  such  reluctant 
departure.  The  scents  of  pine,  fir-wood,  and 
budding  birches  were  never  sweeter.  The 
jolly  robin's  note,  the  bluebird's  carol,  the 
"slender  whistle"  of  the  pewee,  were  never 


Vernal  Notes.  113 

a  more  joyous  intoxication.  To  stand  near  the 
edge  of  a  waning  snow-wreath,  and  smell  the 
fresh  wood  where  the  fruit-tree  limb  has  been 
lopped  off,  brings  a  more  spicy  satisfaction 
than  the  summer  airs  from  banks  of  flowers 
can  do  later. 

A  sun-burst — a  space  of  blue  sky!  How 
heaven  rejoices  with  the  earth!  A  thousand 
hearts  break  forth  into  singing ;  the  woods  are 

in  full  chorus.     It  is  joy — joy — joy! 

"Joy>  in  the  laughing  valleys, 

Joy,  in  each  echoing  glen, — 
Wherever  nature  rallies 
And  leaps  to  life  again !" 


VIII. 
THE  MAKING  OF  MAY. 

What  is  it  makes  the  May?    The  coming  birds, 

Brimful  of  mirth  and  gladness,  as  of  yore, 
With  notes  far  sweeter  than  a  poet's  words  ; 

Earth's  matin  bards,  with  immemorial  lore ; 
The  mounting  sun,  who  will  the  green  restore, 

And  wake  the  dandelion ;  the  white  thorn ; 
The  delicate  arbutus,  seen  once  more; 

The  lengthening  eve,  the  swift  returning  morn: 
8 


ii4  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  bleating  of  young  lambs ;  the  lowing  herds, 
Going  to  pasture ;  the  old  chime  of  the  shore, 

When,  wave  on  wave,  the  freshening  seas  inroll  ; 
Bluest  of  skies;  soft  clouds,  as  white  as  curds? 

Nay !    The  blithe  heart,  we  thought  would  leap  no 

more; 
The  gladness  and  brightness  of  the  soul ! 


IX. 


Under  the  boughs  of  the  thick  wood  a  poet 
sat  listening.  Over  his  head  every  twig  hung 
bare  from  the  late  winter,  but  the  leaves  were 
coming.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  lisping 
laugh  of  the  brook  that  ran  at  his  feet.  He 
held  in  his  hand  a  dainty  Mayflower  blossom 
that  he  had  found  creeping  among  the  with 
ered  forest  rubble  of  last  year,  and  often  he 
inhaled  its  fragrance.  Suddenly  he  heard  a 
musical  flutter,  and  a  chorus  of  the  tiniest, 
sweetest  voices  his  ear  had  ever  heard,  say 
ing,  "Let  us  come  in !"  And  looking  up  he 
saw  a  multitude  of  little  sylphid  forms  floating 
down  through  the  branches,  and  scattering  a 
shower  of  shining  arrows,  like  a  golden  dust, 
harmlessly  around  him.  "We  are  the  children 
of  the  sun,"  they  sang;  "we  are  the  messen 
gers  of  spring.  Our  little  arrows  waken  all 


Vernal  Notes.  115 

the  sleeping  buds,  and  call  forth  all  the  flowers. 
Our  silken  wings  hover  over  the  earth,  and 
you  have  the  crocus  and  the  dandelion,  and  the 
bluebird  and  the  robin  and  the  swallow  are 
suddenly  here." 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  thick  wood  the 
poet  sat  listening.  The  limp  leaves  clustered 
motionless,  and  the  air  was  like  that  issuing 
from  a  heated  furnace.  The  moss  beneath  him 
was  crisp  and  dry,  and  the  flowers  of  the  for 
est  were  drooping  wan  and  faint,  parched 
down  to  their  deepest  rootlets;  while  the 
brook,  shrunken  to  a  rivulet,  was  almost  with 
out  a  sound.  The  poet's  heart  also  languished. 
Suddenly  a  breeze  stirred  the  branches,  and 
again  he  heard  a  musical  flutter,  and  then  a 
chorus  of  the  tiniest,  sweetest  voices  his  ear 
had  ever  heard,  saying,  "Let  us  come  in !" 
And  looking  up  he  saw  a  multitude  of  little 
sylphid  forms  floating  down  through  the 
branches,  and  they  uttered  an  elfin  laughter 
as  they  scattered  on  the  leaves  a  shower  of 
crystal  drops,  that  pattered  on  the  moss  and 
the  dried  leaves  and  danced  in  the  waters  of 
the  brook.  O  how  sweet  and  cool  the  earth 
became!  The  trees  seemed  to  draw  a  longer, 
deeper  breath,  and  the  heart  of  the  poet  was' 


n6  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

revived.  The  fast-falling  drops  searched  to 
the  parched  rootlets,  and  the  palest,  tiniest 
flower  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Let  us  come 
in,"  sang  the  sylphids :  "we  are  the  children 
of  the  air,  the  cloud,  and  the  sea ;  at  our  touch 
the  flowers  of  field  and  forest  revive,  and  the 
hearts  of  men  are  glad.  Let  us  come  in,  for 
we  are  come  to  do  you  good,  we  are  come  to 
bless  you." 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  thick  wood  the 
poet  lay  listening.  The  first  touch  of  autumn 
was  upon  the  forest,  and  among  the  darker 
greens  some  of  the  leaves  were  resplendent. 
A  silver  rime  laced  the  brook,  and  the  tender 
flowers  that  loved  the  sun  and  the  rain  were 
no  longer  there.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  musical 
flutter,  then  a  chorus  of  the  tiniest,  sweetest 
voices  his  ear  had  ever  heard,  saying,  "Let 
us  come  in !"  And  looking  up  the  poet  saw 
once  more  a  multitude  of  little  sylphid  forms 
floating  down  through  the  branches,  and  tear 
ing  and  scattering  what  seemed  to  be  bits  of 
a  rainbow,  and  silver  stars,  which  fell  all 
around  him ;  and  some  of  them  touched  his 
eyes  and  his  forehead ;  and  at  once  he  saw  far 
away  into  the  forest,  where  the  fays  were 
dancing,  and  Robin  Goodfellow  took  off  his 


Vernal  Notes.  117 

purple  cap  and  laid  it  at  his  feet.  Then  the 
sylphids  sang,  "We  are  the  children  of  the 
upper  firmament,  the  dwelling-place  of  the 
clouds  and  the  stars;  we  are  the  messengers 
of  the  Muse,  and  we  come  to  bring  you  dreams 
and  inspirations.  We  will  deck  for  you  the 
soberest  world  with  light,  and  fill  the  most 
barren  solitude  with  music.  Let  us  come  in, 
for  we  bring  you  delight,  and  the  enchantment 
of  our  presence  shall  linger  after  we  have  gone 
away." 

X. 

"Sumer  is  i-cumen  in, 

Lhude  sing  cuccu ; 
Groweth  sed  and  bloweth  mede, 

And  springth  the  wde  nu, 

Sing  cuccu,  cuccu. 
Awe  bleteth  after  lomb, 

Lhouth  after  calve  cu ; 
Bullock  sterteth,  bucke  verteth, 

Murie  sing,  cuccu. 
Wei  singes  thy  cuccu, 
He  swik  thou  nauer  nu. 

Sing  cuccu,  cuccu." 

— Old  English  Poem. 


"The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen, 

Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sewed  nor  spun ; 
The  birds  on  ground,  or  on  the  branches  green, 
Hop  to  and  fro  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 


n8  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Soon  as  o'er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers, 
From  her  low  nest  the  tufted  lark  upsprings ; 

And  cheerful  singing  up  the  air  she  steers ; 

Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet  she 
sings. 

On  the  green  furze,  clothed  o'er  with  golden 

blooms 

That  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  all  around, 
The  linnet  sits  and  tricks  his  glossy  plumes, 

While  o'er  the  wild  his  broken  notes  resound." 
— Michael  Bruce. 


"Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  sing." 

—John  Logan,  "To  The  Cuckoo." 


Thank  heaven !  there  is  a  springing  season 
— to  nature — to  life — to  feeling — to  poesy ! 
The  "Flower  and  the  Leaf"  of  Chaucer  be 
long  to  the  Muse's  spring.  In  his  green  field 
the  daisy  blooms  forever;  in  his  dewy  dingles 
the  merle  and  mavis  sing  through  all  the 
year.  The  birds  come  hastening  to  our  woods, 
or  gather  for  their  flight ;  but,  while  the  poet 
lives,  they  shall  not  desert  us:  "Sing  on,  sing 
on,  O  thrush !"  The  "gay  green  wood"  wakes 


Vernal  Notes.  ng 

.the  pipe  of  the  English  ballad-singer.  Therein 
the  drama  of  love  is  enacted.  Under  the  first 
green  mist  o'  the  woods  the  merry  men  of 
Robin  Hood  go  blithely,  and  Maid  Marian 
walks,  some  homelike  beautiful  thing,  never  to 
fade. 

"Beauty  in  the  woodland  bides, 
Waiting  for  her  wedding  day. 

Hie  thee  hither,  Bonnie  May ! 
Time,  let  not  her  footsteps  stray 
Far  from  this  way."* 

Surely  Death  can  not  come  here.  Any  dole 
ful  event  must  happen  in  the  sodden  fall,  or 
under  the  wild  winter  branches ;  not  when  the 
forests  are  in  their  springtide  magnificence. 
So  we  are  glad  of  the  thousand  voices  that  cry 
out:  "Here  it  is  spring!  Here  it  is  spring!" 
Let  us  go  to  the  woods.  Now  we  are  under 
the  trees'  generous  cover.  How  hospitable  is 
the  forest!  Full  suits  of  wealthy  greenery 
rustle  on  all  the  branches.  Underfoot  ran  the 
blushful  Mayflower  before  these  leaves  were 
out.  Yet  it  peeps  out  of  the  moss,  and  crisp 
last  year's  foliage  at  you.  See  how  the  sun- 

*  Alexander  Rae  Garvie. 


I2O  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

light  leaps  and  laughs  among  the  thousand 
little  twinkling  murmurers !  How  the  rays 
are  toned  and  softened  amid  these  myriad 
green  disks !  There  are  arabesques,  and  gro 
tesques — little  bits  of  light  and  shade,  on  tiny 
knolls  and  in  wee  hollows,  where  oak  and 
beech  stretch  their  roots  so  indolently.  A 
colored  butterfly  flits  into  light.  A  redbreast 
hops,  and  hops.  Ha !  that 's  a  thrush,  deep  in 
the  hollow  among  the  cedars !  And  that — 
that 's  a  bobolink,  out  in  the  clearing !  "Hear 
the  little  tipsy  fairy !"  You  stretch  out,  say 
ing,  "It  is  good  to  be  here,  for  six  hours,  more 
or  less;"  and  pulling  the  fresh  manuscript  of 
a  poem — what  else? — out  of  your  pocket,  read 
the  yet  unpublished  beauties  a  friend  has  lent 
you: 

"Now  while  the  lilies  glisten, 

And  they  who  sing  not  listen 
To  singers  of  the  May, 

What  visions  we  remember, 

Of  murderous  December, 
That  lived  but  yesterday. 

Our  day  has  had  its  dolor; 
Now  comes  the  happy  color, 

The  zephyr,  and  the  lay 
Of  singers  used  to  sighing, 
The  truth  of  death  denying, 

The  herald  of  the  May."  * 


*  Edwin  R.  Chaplin. 


Vernal  Notes.  121 

XL 
THE  SONG  SPARROW. 

"When  the  sweet-scented  cherry  is  snowing, 
And  fed  the  maple-keys  are  growing, 
And  golden  the  dandelion  is  blowing, 
I  listen  to  hear  the  silence  stirred 
By  the  sweet,  sweet,  Canada-bird. 

Other  birds  are  here,  and  are  singing  sweet ; 
But  the  voices  of  spring  are  not  complete 
Till  we  hear  him  his  golden  notes  repeat; — 

Most  liquid  song  ear  ever  heard 

Of  the  sweet,  sweet,  Canada-bird. 

O  the  world  seems  dark,  and  the  range  seems 

narrow 

Of  our  life,  when  the  wintry  winds  do  harrow ; — 
But  't  is  changed  with  the  note  of  the  first  song 

sparrow ! 

Our  boundless,  far-away  dreams  are  stirred 
By  the  sweet,  sweet,  Canada-bird. 

His  silver  clarion  exalts  the  day, 

And  his  music  charmeth  evening  away, — 

Ay,  night  is  broken  with  his  glad  lay ! — 

As  if  he  could  never  enough  be  heard — 

Our  sweet,  sweet,  Canada-bird!" 


122  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

XII. 

Sad  is  his  fate  who  has  lost  the  relish  of 
his  life,  and  to  whom  the  spring  comes  no 
more  with  its  wonted  freshness ;  who  has  so 
dulled  and  blunted  the  fineness  of  his  nature, 
and  so  bedrugged  the  original  composition  of 
his  once  virgin  soul,  that  its  very  element  has 
become  corrupt;  and  who  has  come  to  inherit 
"the  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief,"  unable 
to  respond  heartily  and  entirely  to  any  of  the 
fair  and  beautiful,  the  rapturous  and  holy 
things  that  make  their  appeal  to  him,  and 
which  once  stirred  his  warmest  emotions. 
Unhappy  he  who,  when  the  wild  pear  is  in 
blossom  and  the  elmtips  are  greening,  when 
arbutus  glances  from  the  wood,  when  the  sun 
is  setting  in  the  sea,  or  a  little  child  looks  up 
in  his  face,  realizes  a  disturbed  sense  of  in 
completeness,  and  thinks  of  that  little  one  of 
God  within  his  own  bosom  which  once  he 
slew ;  who  cries  aloud,  like  that  lamenting  sui 
cide,  the  tablet  of  whose  grave  from  Lone 
Mountain  overlooks  the  Golden  Gate, — * 

*  More  than  twenty  years  after  his  death,  by  his  own  hand, 
in  a  hotel  at  San  Francisco,  a  volume  of  the  poetry  of  Richard 
Realf  has  appeared,  with  a  memoir  by  his  friend,  Colonel 
Hinton.  It  is  the  record  of  a  life,  now  passionate,  now  mel 
ancholy,  and  afflicted  with  some  sort  of  an  intermittent  moral 
dementia.  His  poetry  is  genuine,  abounding  in  pure  and 
noble  sentiments;  but  much  of  it,  sweetly  musical  as  it  is, 
is  the  poetry  of  regret  and  sorrow.  To  live  obscurely,  to  die 
and  to  be  forgotten,  is  often  the  bane  of  melodious  spirits. 


Vernal  Notes.  123 

''There  is  no  little  child  within  me  now, 

To  sing  back  to  the  thrushes !  to  leap  up 
When  June  winds  kiss  me ;  when  an  apple  bough 

Laughs  into  blossom,  or  a  buttercup 
Plays  with  the  sunshine,  or  a  violet 

Dances  in  the  glad  dew — alas !  alas ! 

The  meaning  of  the  daisies  in  the  grass 
I  have  forgotten ;  or,  if  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
It  is  not  with  the  blitheness  of  a  child, 

But  with  the  bitter  sorrow  of  past  years." 


XIII. 

Best  of  all  the  spring  flowers  I  love  our 
Acadian  Mayflower,  the  favorite  and  emblem 
of  that  land  the  dearest  to  me;  whose  signifi 
cant  legend  is,  "We  bloom  amid  the  snows." 
No  sooner  is  the  retreat  of  winter  followed  by 
softer  showers  and  a  few  days  of  the  sun,  than 
that  darling  of  the  forest,  Hpigaa  repens,  puts 
up  her  little  pink  face,  giving  the  first  tint 
and  fragrance  the  white  forest  knows, — to 

"Make  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place." 

Look  down  among  the  debris  of  last  year, 
and  there  is  the  infant  beauty,  with  a  smile  on 
its  face  and  a  tear  in  its  eye !  The  girls  come 
seeking,  to  adorn  their  May-day  festival,  the 
"trailing  evergreen,  with  rusty  hairs  and  pink- 


124  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ish  white  flowers,  which  are  sweet  scented."* 
They  know  the  sandy  soil  under  the  pine- 
trees,  where  they  grow  the  best.  Our  poets 
have  not  been  silent  about  little  Epigsea,  but 
have  named  her  with  other  of  the  tender  chil 
dren  : 

"The  frail  spring-beauty  with  her  perfumed  bell, 
The  wind-flower,  and  the  spotted  adder-tongue." 

— Lampman. 

"The  Mayflowers  shy 

And  sun-loving  blossoms  their  way  to  light  winning 
Through  strewn  leaves  of  autumn,  mute  emblems 

of  death 

Perfume  with  their  breath, 

The  zephyrs  released  from  their  fetters  of  frost." 

—Weir. 

"Sunshine  flecked  the  bank 
Happy  with  arbutus." 

— Mrs.  Hensley. 

"Wreaths  of  wild  arbutus  round  the  brows 
of  Blomidon."  — Eaton. 

"Hid,  like  some  laughing  child,  shy  Mayflower  fair, 
Beneath  the  leafy  shield,  with  face  aglow, 
Thy  pearly  self  the  coy  spring's  first  tableau, 
Come  to  the  day  and  yield  thy  fragrance  there." 

—Rand. 


*  Sir  James  McPherson  Le  Moine. 


Vernal  Notes.  125 

But  among  all  who  have  celebrated  shy  ar 
butus,  none  have  loved  her  more  than  he  who 
was  to  an  earlier  circle  of  readers  known  as 
Alleyne  :* 


"Watched  by  the  stars  the  sleeping  Mayflower  lies, 
On  craggy  mountain  slope,  in  bosky  dell, 
Beneath  the  red  and  yellow  leaves  that  fell 
Ere  autumn  yielded  to  bleak  winter's  reign  : 
But  when  at  spring's  approach  the  tyrant  flies, 
Our  Mayflower  wakes,  and  buds  and  blooms  again  : 
Queen  of  the  forest  —  flower  of  flowers  most  sweet  ! 
Delight  and  wonder  of  a  thousand  eyes  ! 
Thou  dost  recall  a  day  that  flew  too  fleet, 
A  hope  that  perished  in  a  sea  of  sighs  ! 
We  all  have  hoped  for  that  which  might  not  be, 
But  thou,  sweet  flower!  forbiddest  to  despair: 
After  the  winter  comes  a  spring  to  thee,  — 
And  waves  retire  when  storms  to  rage  forbear." 

The  songs  of  birds  are  interpreted  accord 
ing  to  the  ear  and  fancy  of  the  listener,  and 
none  more  variously  than  that  of  the  song 
sparrow.  One  singer  of  the  Dominionf  hears 
in  the  minor  mood,  and  renders  a  note  of  sad 
ness  : 

"From  the  leafy  maple  ridges, 
From  the  thickets  of  the  cedar, 
From  the  alders  by  the  river, 
From  the  bending  willow  branches, 


*  Hiram  Ladd  Spencer,  of  St.  John,  N.  B.        tJ-  D.  Edgar. 


126  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

From  the  hollows  and  the  hillsides, 
Through  the  lone  Canadian  forest, 
Comes  the  melancholy  music, 
Oft  repeated, — never  changing, — 
'All — is — vanity — vanity — vanity.' 

Where  the  farmer  plows  his  furrow, 
Sowing  seed  with  hope  of  harvest 
In  the  orchard  white  with  blossom, 
In  the  early  field  of  clover, 
Comes  the  little  brown-clad  singer, 
Flitting  in  and  out  of  bushes, 
Hiding  well  behind  the  fences, 
Piping  forth  his  song  of  sadness, — 

'Poor — hu — manity — manity — manity.'  " 

Another*  hears  the  whitethroat,  with  his 
heart  all  aglow  with  patriotic  emotion,  and  the 
bird  gives  him  an  accordant  refrain: 

"Shy  bird  of  the  silver  arrows  of  song, 

That  cleave  our  Northern  air  so  clear, 
Thy  notes  prolong,  prolong, 

I  listen,  I  hear, — 

'I — love — dear — Canada, 

Canada,  Canada.' 

O  plumes  of  the  painted  dusky  fir, 

Screen  of  a  swelling  patriot  heart, 
The  copse  is  all  astir, 

And  echoes  thy  part !  .  .  . 


''•'•  Dr.  Theodore  H.  Rand. 


Vernal  Notes.  127 

Now  willowy  reeds  tune  their  silver  flutes 
As  the  noise  of  the  day  dies  down; 
And  silence  strings  her  lutes 

The  whitethroat  to  crown.  .  .  . 

O  bird  of  the  silver  arrows  of  song, 
Shy  poet  of  Canada  dear, 

Thy  notes  prolong,  prolong, 

We  listen,  we  hear, — 
'I — love — dear — Canada, 
Canada,  Canada.' " 

A  sweet  singer  of  Maine  listens  in  her  native 
woods,  on  the  headwaters  of  the  Piscataquis, 
and  construes  the  notes  into  some  illusive 
summons  of  a  spirit  of  fantasy : 

"Far  away  a  wood-bird  sings 

In  the  spruce's  purple  shade, 
And  I  follow  at  the  call 

From  a  leafy  cool  arcade. 
O  how  far,  how  clear,  how  pure 

Is  his  liquid  floating  song ! 
Sweet  bird-spirit,  vain  my  quest, 

Though  I  hear  you  all  day  long, — 
'Come,  come,  follow  me,  follow  me !'  " 

— Anna  Boynton  Averill. 

Often,  on  some  outskirt  of  the  Whiting 
woods,  have  I  listened  to  this  bird, — or  per 
chance,  in  the  Connecticut  Mills  hollow,  by 


128  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

the  lake.  I  have  lingered  long  upon  its  en 
ticing,  plaintive  note, — "O-dear-y-me !  Pitee- 
me,  pity-me !"  This  is  the  song-sparrow,  one 
of  the  shyest  children  of  the  woods.  Here 
she 

"Builds  her  home 
In  the  creviced  mossy  ledge, 

And  the  startled  red-wing  flies 
Like  a  fire-spark  in  the  hedge ; 

And  the  dusky  wood  is  filled 
With  clear  songs  and  flapping  wings, 

While  I  follow,  wrapt  in  dreams, 
Where  this  lovely  spirit  sings, — 

'Come,  come,  follow  me,  follow  me !' " 


XIV. 

"From  the  wild 

Spic'd  with  dark  cedars  cried  the  whip-poor-will." 
— Isabella  V.  Crawford. 

"Through  the  low  woods, 
Haunted  with  vain  melancholy, 
A  whip-poor-will  wanders, 
Forcing  his  monotonous  song. 

The  wind  moves  on  the  cedar  hill, 
Tossing  the  weird  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will." 
— Duncan  C.  Scott. 


Vernal  Notes.  129 

When  one  of  these  birds  had  found  its  way 
into  an  outlying  orchard  tree  of  the  Clement 
Farm,  at  Hampden;  and,  forsaking  his  native 
wood  close  by,  was,  after  night-fall  threshing 
away  industriously  enough,  I  exclaimed, 
"There  is  a  whip-poor-will !"  "Ay,"  said  the 
old  man  at  my  side,  shaking  his  head,  "I 
never  like  to  hear  one  of  those  fellows.  My 
wife  believes  some  one  of  the  family  is  going 
to  die  when  he  comes  so  nigh  the  house."  The 
minstrel  of  evening  was  to  him  the  harbinger 
of  evil,  and  he  found  little  pleasure  in  this 
innocent  creature  of  God, — in 

"The  hermit  thrush  and  the  whip-poor-will 
Haunting  the  wood." 

This  is  one  of  the  shyest  of  the  eremites  of 
the  forest, — one  of  the  most  solitary  among 
birds ;  and  fortunate  indeed  is  the  lover  of 
the  feathered  kinds,  who,  visiting  them  in 
their  favorite  haunts,  can  set  his  eyes  upon 
this  brooding  creature  of  the  brown  back  and 
white  breast,  dear  to  the  dreamer  and  the  poet. 

I  first  heard  the  note  of  the  whip-poor- 
will  in  the  lonely  Franklin  Forest,  riding  at 
night,  and  had  an  uncertain  glimpse  of  its 
uplifted  bosom  on  a  log  or  stump  by  the  way 
side.  I  felt  the  fascination  that  has  given  it 
9 


130  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

to  song,  and  recalled  the  verse  of  Carman, 
who  has  given  it  such  prominence: 

"What  ails  the  fir-dark  slopes, 

That  all  night  long  the  whip-poor-wills 
Cry  their  insatiable  cry 

Across  the  sleeping  Ardise  hills?" 

Its  peculiar  thrashing  note  haunts  the  mem 
ory  long  after  it  has  been  heard,  and  seems 
the  very  expression  of  loneliness  and  sorrow. 


XV. 

"Beechen  buds  begin  to  swell 
And  woods  the  bluebird's  warble  know." 

— Bryant. 

Nor  is  the  bluebird  a  tardy  comer.  He, 
too,  has  a  gleesome  flute  to  announce  the  sea 
son  beautiful.  The  robin  shall  not  sing  his 
song  alone.  Though  redbreast  may  come 
nearer  to  us,  we  love  the  little  darling  who  has 
made  sweetly  vocal  for  us  how  many  an 
Acadian  spring! 

"Because  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

Among  the  thrushes  of  the  wood, 
And  all  the  rivers  in  the  hills 

Were  playmates  of  my  solitude; 


Vernal  Notes.  131 

Because  in  that  sad  time  of  year, 
With  April  twilight  on  the  earth 

And  journeying  rain  upon  the  sea, 

With  the  shy  wind-flowers  was  my  birth." 

While  March  is  yet  brusquely  crackling  the 
stream-side  bushes,  the  minstrel,  "with  a  tinge 
of  earth  on  his  breast,  and  the  sky-tinge  on 
his  back,"  assures  us  the  reign  of  winter  is 
over,  his  scepter  broken,  and  that  the  hill 
sides  will  soon  be  vocal  with  the  "sound  of 
many  waters." 

XVI. 

"It  is  a  wee  sad-colored  thing 

As  shy  and  secret  as  a  maid, 
That,  ere  in  choir  the  robins  sing, 
Pipes  its  own  name  like  one  afraid. 

Phcebe!  it  calls  and  calls  again.  .  .  ." 

— Lowell. 

And  there  is  another  much  beloved  bird 
that  comes  with  April.  We  have  heard  it  so 
often  here  in  Maine;  and  never  do  we  hear 
it,  in  these  days,  without  recalling  Lowell's 
exquisite  lines: 

"Ere  pales  in  heaven  the  morning  star, 

A  bird,  the  loneliest  of  its  kind, 
Hears  Dawn's  faint  footfall  from  afar, 
While  all  its  mates  are  dumb  and  blind. 


132  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

It  seems  pain-prompted  to  repeat 
The  story  of  some  ancient  ill ; 

But  Phoebe!  Phoebe!  sadly  sweet, 
Is  all  it  says,  and  then  is  still." 

Does  its  name,  though  domestic,  suggest 
the  shy  and  lonely  thing  the  poet  makes  it 
to  be?  Or  is  it  that  we  knew  a  maiden  who 
bore  that  name,  and  who  was  shy,  and  had 
an  air  of  loneliness  about  her?  Come,  little 
Phoebe,  or  "Pewee,"  from  thy  nook  of  re 
treat  by  the  water-course — perhaps  under 
some  ramshackled  old  bridge,  or  caved  bank — 
and  show  thyself!  The  poets  have  desired 
thee,  and  the  hearts  of  the  children  will  leap 
gladly  to  see  thee  near  them,  darling,  and  to 
hear  thee  calling,  "Pewee,  pewee,  pirch,  pe- 
wee !" 

XVII. 

"Ringing  from  the   rounded  barrow 
Rolls  the  robin's  tune." 

— D.  C.  Scott. 

We  have  a  settled  partiality  for  Jack  Robin. 
He  is  to  us  the  certain  harbinger  of  spring, 
and  convinces  us  of  sunnier  days  and  greener 
fields,  with  the  abundance  of  flowers.  He  does 


Vernal  Notes.  133 

not  wait  for  the  leaves,  but  comes  to  make 
fellowship  with  us  among  the  budding  twigs; 
and  for  his  dear  familiarity  we  love  him.  He 
may  claim  like  praise  with  the  English  cuckoo, 
for,  before  the  snow-wreaths  are  wasted  out 
of  the  hollows,  his  "certain  voice  we  hear." 
Out  of  his  clump  of  evergreen  in  the  cedar 
swamp  he  comes,  and  undertakes  a  nest  close 
to  our  door,  prepared  to  run  the  gauntlet  of 
cats  and  children. 

For  three  successive  seasons  a  pair  of  robins 
have  lodged  in  a  crotch  of  the  maple  in  front 
of  our  house.  The  friendly  couple  do  not  seem 
to  consider  our  street  a  public  place  at  all. 
Yesterday  I  had  a  good  look  at  Jack  and  his 
quarters.  This  winged  habitant  appeared  with 
a  worm  in  his  beak,  gave  a  sidelong  glance 
at  me,  and  was  speedily  beside  Jill,  who  re 
ceived  the  butcher's  meat  from  him,  and  dealt 
it  out  to  the  gaping  mouths  eagerly  protrud 
ing  above  the  brink  of  the  nest.  Meanwhile 
Jack  skipped  away,  presumably  to  refurnish 
his  larder.  Does  he  not  raise  choice  worms  in 
his  muck-beds?  O  yes,  and  his  factor,  Provi 
dence,  breeds  the  best ;  and  he  knows  the  places 
where  they  lie,  and  how  best  to  pluck  them 
out.  Later  in  the  day  we  heard  a  sound  of 


134  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

consternation,  when  a  whole  brood — ours,  not 
the  birds' — rushed  to  the  door,  and  saw  the 
redbreasts  circling  round,  going  madly  from 
tree  to  tree,  uttering  bird  shrieks  and  chidings 
innumerable ;  and  we  also  saw  the  reason,  for 
there  was  young  Jamie,  with  more  of  mirth 
than  mischief  in  his  eyes,  hugging  the  tree 
and  looking  into  the  nest.  "There !  why  will 
that  boy  go  up  and  down  that  tree,  just  to 
frighten  those  birds?"  Dear  querist,  you 
must  put  that  to  Him  who  ordained  birds  and 
boys.  I  think  the  birds  will  suffer  little  from 
him, — only  the  temporary  annoyance  of  his 
teasing.  They  seem  to  know  that,  from  the 
manner  of  their  going  on.  How  they  berate 
him !  How  they  screech  his  ticket  of  leave, 
and  cry :  "Jim  !  Jim  !  Go  away,  Jim  !"  in  terms 
of  which  our  less  passionate  speech  is  incap 
able.  Slowly,  as  he  commenced  to  descend, 
they  plucked  up  courage  to  come  at  him,  as 
if  they  had  a  mind  to  put  out  his  eyes,  while, 
with  less  of  terror  in  their  tones,  they  up 
braided  him  resentfully  for  his  idle  concern 
about  their  affairs.  They  are  not  likely  to 
grow  into  a  thorough  assurance  that  he  medi 
tates  no  evil,  and  will  do  them  no  injury, 
though  they  seem  to  suspect  the  truth  that 


Vernal  Notes.  135 

beast  and  bird  may  grow  in  perfect  safety 
with  him.  They  shake  their  wise  heads,  and 
say,  "O,  we  know  boys!" 


XVIII. 

"Then  from  the  honeysuckle  gray 

The  oriole  with  experienced  quest 
Twitches  the  fibrous  bark  away, 

The  cordage  of  his  hammock-nest, 
Cheering  his  labor  with  a  note 

Rich  as  the  orange  of  his  throat." 

— Lowell. 

Then  the  feathered  gentry  must  arrive,  the 
plumed  gay  gallants.  We  are  always  glad 
to  see  them,  too.  The  earth  has  donned  her 
richest  attire  to  greet  them.  The  dandelions 
have  spotted  the  grass  with  their  golden  disks 
before  the  gentleman  swallow  is  seen  revolv 
ing  in  the  sunny  air,  or  the  oriole  puts  in  his 
flashy  appearance.  This  oriole  swings  his 
shapely  cradle  from  some  elm-tip.  He  does 
not  mean  his  domicile  shall  be  molested.  He 
is  too  wise  a  bird  to  put  his  beautiful  person 
in  danger,  and  he  takes  good  care  of  his  nest 
lings. 

All  bird-sounds  are  sweet  to  me,  whether 


136  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

interpreted  cheerfully  or  mournfully.  The 
sharp  call  of  the  jay,  the  chatter  of  the  black 
bird,  the  delicate  softness  of  the  purple  finch's 
note,  the  honk  of  the  wild  goose,  the  whistle 
of  the  robin,  the  harsher  ejaculation  of  the 
crow,  subdued  by  distance — all  are  sweet  to 
my  ear.  The  "whitethroat's  ecstasy,"  the  blue 
bird's  carol,  clear  as  ever,  under  the  blue  April 
sky,  "the  first  song-sparrow  brown,"  never  fail 
to  delight  us,  but  all  the  feathered  tribe  con 
tribute  something  indispensable  to  the  fullness 
of  the  grand  concert. 

XIX. 

"Hark ! 
Was  that    ...     the  bobolink? 

The  garrulous  bobolink's  lilt  and  chime. 
Over  and  over."  — D.  C.  Scott. 

Now  another  visitor  launches  himself  into 
song,  like  an  arrow  out  of  spring's  quiver. 
Who  does  not  know  the  saucy,  glancing,  mu 
sical  fellow,  since  Bryant  introduced  him? 
"Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name"  to  the 
smiling  hills  and  the  rejoicing  meadows. 
What  a  magical  tangle !  What  a  gibberish 


Vernal  Notes.  137 

of  melody !  This  bird  was  a  favorite  of  Whit- 
tier's  hero,  Hugh  Tallant: 

"Of  all  the  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  bobolink." 

He  is  also  a  favorite  of  ours.  Lowell  puts 
the  bird's  rapturous  spirit  into  his  song: 

"Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink  is  here." 

And  Bryant  forgets  his  composure,  and  is  no 
longer  cold,  when  he  listens  to  this  well-spring 
of  music,  "bubbling  over  with  exhilaration 
and  quivering  with  delight." 

"Bobolink,  bobolink, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nice  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about, 

Chee,  chee,  chee !" 

The  Canadian  poets  have  a  loving  acquaint 
ance  with  the  rollicking  songster.  So,  Rob 
erts,  in  his  "Ave :" 

"Again  I  heard  the  song 
Of  the  glad  bobolink,  whose  lyric  throat 
Pealed  like  a  tangle  of  small  bells  afloat" 

So,  Carman : 

"Bobolincolns  in  the  meadows, 
Leisure  in  the  purple  shadows." 


138  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

So,  Lampman : 

"Where  the  restless  bobolink  loiters  and  wooes 
Down  in  the  hollows  and  over  the  swells, 
Dropping  in  and  out  of  the  shadows, 
Sprinkling  his  music  about  the  meadows. 
Whistles  and  little  checks  and  cooes, 
And  the  tinkle  of  glassy  bells." 

And  now  is  the  "high  tide  of  the  year." 
The  woods  run  over  with  song;  every  field 
has  its  minstrelsy,  every  grove  is  vocal. 
Surely  these  joyous  ones  are  set  to  give  us 
good  cheer,  to  banish  melancholy!  They  are 
akin  to  humanity ;  we  miss  them,  as  we  should 
some  gentle,  sweet-voiced  householder  re 
cently  departed ;  we  feel  as  if  part  of  our 
selves  had  vanished  when  the  naked  hills  stand, 
silent,  and  the  birds  have  disappeared.  How 
aptly  has  Burroughs  put  his  thought :  "The 
song-birds  might  all  have  been  brooded  and 
hatched  in  the  human  heart,  since  nearly  the 
whole  gamut  of  human  passion  and  emotion 
is  expressed  more  or  less  fully  in  their  varied 
songs.  There  are  the  plaintive  singers,  the 
soaring,  ecstatic  singers,  the  gushing  and  volu 
ble  singers,  and  the  half-voiced,  inarticulate 
singers." 


Vernal  Notes.  139 

XX. 

"There,  when  the  gradual  twilight  falls, 

Through  quietudes  of  dusk  afar, 
Hermit  antiphonal  hermit  calls 

From  hills  below  the  first  pale  star." 

— Carman. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  hearing  of  this 
songster  on  the  edge  of  a  thicket  in  the  vil 
lage  of  East  Corinth.  I  had  recently  read 
Burroughs's  account  of  him,  and  was  then  and 
there  enabled  to  verify  that  rare  description 
of  a  strain  that  "realizes  a  peace  and  a  deep 
solemn  joy  that  only  the  finest  souls  may 
know."  Heard  at  sunset,  or  in  the  quiet  of 
evening,  or  with  "the  full  moon  just  rounding 
from  the  horizon,"  its  "Spheral,  spheral!  O 
holy,  holy!  O  clear  away,  clear  away!  O 
clear  up,  clear  up  I"  might  render  a  chanting 
cathedral  choir  and  the  rolling  pomp  of  an 
organ  superfluous  and  vain. 

That  lover  and  intimate  acquaintance  of  the 
birds,  the  master  of  Spencer  Grange,*  has 
a  partiality  for  this  songster.  "How  often, 
too,"  he  writes,  "have  I  not  listened  to  the 
ethereal,  flutelike  tinkle  of  the  Orpheus  of 

*Sir  James  M.  LeMoine. 


140  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

our  deep  woods,  the  hermit  thrush,  homeward 
wafted  from  the  green  domes  of  Spencer 
Wood  at  dewy  morn,  when  the  sun-god  suf 
fused  with  purple  and  gold  the  nodding  pin 
nacles  of  my  dear  old  pines  and  spreading 
elms,  or  at  the  close  of  those  gorgeous  sun 
sets,  with  which  spring  consoles  us  for  our 
January  storms !  And  yet,  have  I  not  been 
told  that  in  Canada  there  were  no  song-birds !" 
One  more !  We  heard  through  the  ear  of 
naturalist  and  poet  long  ago;  but  we  have 
heard  also  through  our  own.  No  bird  song  is 
more  exquisite  than  that  from  the  throat  of 
the  wood  thrush,  heard  on  the  edge  of  the 
thicket  at  twilight: 

"Call  to  me,  thrush, 

When  night  grows  dim, 
When  dreams  unform 

And  death  is  far ! 
When  hoar  dews  flush 

On  dawn's  rath  brim, 
Wake  me  to  hear 

Thy  wildwood  charm." 

— Carman. 

Evening  fills  her  cup  with  its  most  delicious 
melody,  and  at  morning  the  heart  gives  re 
sponse,  with  Anna  Boynton: 


Vernal  Notes.  141 

"Clear  is  thy  message,  O  woodland  bell, 

Ringing  soft  in  the  echoing  dell, 

Under  green  arch  and  golden  spire ; 

When  dawn's  first  radiant  arrow  fell 
Into  the  dim  wood's  dusky  choir, 
Thy  notes  uprose,  nor  the  rising  fire 

Of  day  doth  hush  thy  heavenly  swell. 

Ever  unspoken  on  earth  must  be 

The  dawn-blown  message  borne  by  thee, 

Bell  of  the  wilderness,  soft  and  clear ! 
There  's  a  language  lost  and  sweet,  that  we 

May  never  speak  in  our  veiled  sphere; 

But  thrushes  sing  it,  and,  lo,  we  hear! 
The  lilies  blow,  and  behold,  we  see!" 

Now,  let  us  take  reverently  the  sacrament 
of  the  spring ;  let  us  thank  God  for  birds,  and 
for  bird  songs. 


€^e  Jftinigtet'g 

H  Symposium. 

"Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire : 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair : 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good." 

—Goldsmith,  "The  Traveler." 

THE  minister's  sermon  had  been  written, 
conned,  and  put  away.  The  hearth  was  newly 
dusted,  and  its  antique  hollow  was  merry  with 
the  brightest  thing  in  the  house, — unless,  in 
deed,  "his  thrifty  wifie's  smile"  be  a  brighter. 
Usually  the  quiet  hours  that  border  on  the  Sab 
bath  were  by  him  devoted  to  sedative  occu 
pations,  preparatory  to  the  more  strenuous  toils 
of  the  Sabbath ;  he  relaxed  himself  with  music, 
or  with  dreaming  over  easy  rhymes,  after  a 
142 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        143 

walk  in  the  open  air,  or  in  casual  fireside  con 
versation.  Perhaps,  with  him  the  reclusive  im 
pulse  had  become  too  powerful ;  for  there  is 
danger  of  excess  in  pursuits  the  saint  and  the 
scholar  affect,  and  the  normal  life  requires  fre 
quent  alteration  and  diversion.  Somewhat  in 
opposition  to  the  gregariousness  of  the  time, 
and  the  predominance  of  clubs  and  conven 
tions,  he  magnified  the  home,  deploring  what 
seemed  to  him  its  decay.  It  was  his  palladium, 
his  especial  sanctuary,  his  fountain  of  virtue; 
it  was  the  hallowed  center  of  radiant  and  happy 
calm,  about  which  the  outer  world,  with  its 
shows  and  storms,  like  an  immense  panorama, 
forever  rotated.  A  Presence  made  it  a  shrine ; 
a  vestal  spirit  lit  its  altar,  and  bright  beings 
they  had  invoked  were  in  joyous  ministry 
there.  Yet  whatever  attractions  or  comforts 
it  might  inclose,  to  all  of  them  the  transient 
comer  was  openly  welcome ;  and  he  chiefly  who 
most  could  need  or  could  best  enjoy  them. 

The  place  had  upon  it  the  mellowing  touch 
of  anciency.  The  preacher  lived  in  the  oldest 
house  the  village  could  boast,  with  a  history 
extending  back  into  pre-Revolutionary  times. 
Squarely,  with  naked  weather-worn  walls  it 
stood,  in  the  vicinity  of  a  fort,  long  since  dis- 


144  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

mantled,  the  rubble  of  which  protruded  from 
the  thin  soil;  and  throughout  it  had  what  has 
been  termed  "a  general  flavor  of  mild  decay." 
On  a  little  eminence,  the  lights  of  its  windows 
and  its  twro  great  chimneys  were  beacons 
toward  the  sea,  and  warders  looking  inland. 
As  with  the  sea-winds,  and  the  briny  odors, 
and  the  tides  that  went  and  came,  the  house 
was  a  memory-haunted  place,  where  walked 
the  ghosts  of  the  buried  generations,  whose 
ashes  were  in  the  "field  of  graves"  just  be 
yond.  Eyes  from  its  windows  had  watched 
the  masons  of  Phips,  rearing  their  mural  de 
fenses;  and  had  seen  the  ships  of  D'Iberville, 
while  with  trembling  hearts  their  owners  lis 
tened  to  the  bellowing  of  his  cannon.  Within, 
its  thick  walls,  filled  with  such  substances  as 
made  it  impenetrable  when  bullets  were 
bandied  and  Indian  war-yells  made  the  place 
dismal,  the  huddling  settlers  had  more  than 
once  been  gathered,  as  to  a  convenient  shelter 
from  the  storm  of  battle.  Its  recent  traditions 
had  been  more  pacific,  social,  and  friendly.  It 
had  been  in  the  possession  of  a  family  cele 
brated  for  their  widespread  doors  and  tables, 
and  their  excellent  openhandedness. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.         145 

"In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  hospitality ; 
The  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roar'd, 
The  stranger  feasted  at  the  board." 

The  good  master  of  the  house  went  abroad  and 
hailed  them  in,  until  in  truth  the  feeder  and 
the  lodger  were  seldom  wanting. 

But  on  a  winter  evening,  if  the  sleet  bit,  or 
the  cold  white  spume  leaped  white  over  the 
sounding  rocks,  or  if  the  "cold  round  moon 
shone  deeply  down,"  and  the  frosty  fields 
sparkled,  it  was  cozily  warm  and  bright  within 
the  minister's  study ;  where  the  glow  out  of 
that  huge  cavern  of  brick,  in  which  the  oak  butts 
were  burning,  laughed  upward  over  the  backs 
of  cherished  tomes  and  the  pictures  upon  the 
walls.  In  the  presence  of  this  jocund  Lar 
and  his  genial  attendants,  the  casual  dropper-in 
forgot  himself,  and  was  not  in  haste  to  go.  And 
this  evening  the  program  of  silence  and  soli 
tude  must  be  laid  aside,  for  the  minister  has 
agreed  to  entertain  his  friends,  whom  he  has 
invited  to  a  literary  symposium.  In  an  appro 
priate  nook  near  his  desk,  and  at  the  right 
hand  from  the  hearth,  in  a  high-backed  chair 
covered  with  cretonne,  reposed  the  slender 
10 


146  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

figure  of  the  host.  His  face,  long,  smooth- 
shaven  and  pale  had,  for  its  distinguishing 
features,  a  well-rounded  brow  and  dark  glanc 
ing  eyes.  Fifty  years  had  not  dimmed  their 
luster,  and  they  instantly  expressed  each  phase 
of  his  changing  mood.  Beside  him,  where  the 
firelight  fell  full  upon  his  face,  sat  the  high- 
school  teacher;  a  stirring,  energetic  man,  of 
keen  intelligence,  who  combined,  during  the 
winter  months,  the  duties  of  a  pedagogue  with 
those  of  an  editor,  both  of  which,  by  the  aid 
of  a  competent  assistant,  he  satisfactorily  dis 
charged.  To  a  stocky,  well-compacted  body 
was  annexed  a  squarely-molded  head ;  and  in 
his  whole  person  were  indicated  resolution  and 
aggression.  His  opinions  were  pronounced 
decisively.  He  easily  assumed  the  critical  at 
titude,  and  the  salt  of  his  wit  was  at  times 
slightly  corrosive.  At  the  left  of  the  fireplace 
sat  the  village  doctor.  He,  too,  was  a  man 
slenderly  proportioned,  and  with  a  darkly- 
bearded  face,  which  was  capable  of  much  grav 
ity  at  times.  A  genial  spirit,  however,  was 
masked  under  a  veil  of  caution  and  reticence; 
while  at  times,  and  with  his  friends  especially, 
his  eyes  and  his  whole  face  grew  radiant  with 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        147 

humor,  and  round  them  were  "the  busy 
wrinkles."  The  three  united  in  their  love  of 
chat  and  in  their  love  of  literature. 

"What  a  charm  there  is  in  an  open  wood- 
fire  !"  said  the  teacher.  "I  am  half  inclined  to 
believe,  with  Shelley,  that  we  are  scarcely 
aware  of  its  beauty.  But  one  may  acquire  a 
hint  of  it,  upon  coming  in  from  a  walk  upon 
a  frosty  night  such  as  this." 

"What  charm  abides,"  responded  the  min- 
inster,  "in  all  the  simple,  elemental  things  of 
the  world,  and  of  human  life,  to  all  whose 
natures  are  sincere !  I  am  more  and  more  in 
duced  to  rely  upon  them  as  the  divinely-ap 
pointed  instruments  of  our  temporal  well-being. 
Let  us  cultivate  a  closer  acquaintance  with, 
and  a  keener  appreciation  of,  the  elemental 
powers  by  which  we  are  environed,  and  by 
which  we  live,  for  they  exist  within  us.  Let 
us  understand  our  proper  relations  to  the  uni 
verse,  and  let  us  preserve  them  inviolate.  It 
is  an  old  story  how  corrupt  and  distraught 
human  souls  become  by  luxury,  by  haste  and 
tumult,  by  violence  and  greed,  and  by  the 
whirlpool-like  complexity  of  things.  I  love 
and  court  the  primitive  life,  with  its  serene 


148  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

joys  and  its  long  relish.  We  are  getting  to  be 
a  people  too  suddenly  jaded  and  outworn.  It 
is  as  true  now  as  ever,  amid  the  multiplicity  of 
things,  that  few  are  needful,  while  the  task  of 
selection  is  becoming  burdensome.  Thank 
God,  this  world  has  not  for  me  yet  lost  its 
harmony  or  beauty!  It  may  be  true  that 
youth  rayed  a  peculiar  splendor  on  me  and  on 
the  world ;  yet,  with  all  the  years  of  dimness 
and  tarnish,  it  has  never  been  robbed  of  its 
own  proper  glory : 

"  'The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet.' 

The  older  I  grow,  the  more  sacredly  beautiful 
this  universal  frame  becomes  to  my  eyes.  Is 
it  not,  after  all,  a  part  of  God's  great  house, — 
an  ante-chamber  to  his  rooms  of  state ;  which 
his  hands  have  adorned  with  shapes  and  hues 
no  painter  or  jeweler  can  equal?  Why  ask 
for  stone  walls,  as  if  here  we  sought  our  city 
of  continuance?  Why  sigh  for  Plato's  let 
tered  ease,  the  elegant  appointments  of  Seneca, 
or  the  Epicurean  villa  of  Lucullus?  Why 
should  these  artifices  be  thought  necessary  to 
our  well-being ;  when,  coming  out  of  our  mod- 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        149 

est  dwelling  on  a  spring  morning,  we  stand 
in  the  midst  of  the  King's  palace — a  mansion 
indeed !  a  glorious  structure !  with  its  meadowy 
floors  and  flowered  carpets,  its  green-foliaged 
pillars,  its  blue  ceiling;  an  edifice  like  that 
above,  unbuilt  by  human  hands,  on  which  no 
mason  has  clinked  his  trowel  or  carpenter 
struck  his  chisel?  The  beggar  in  his  rags, 
who  sinks  to  sleep  under  a  haystack,  amid  the 
golden  haze  of  a  September  evening,  has  over 
him  an  azure  arch  more  deeply  starred  and 
sprinkled  with  celestial  dew  than  ever  bent 
over  Nero  in  his  Roman  palace.  He  gazes 
upward,  and  his  rustic  eyes  encounter 

"'The  splendid  mooned  and  jeweled  night, 
The  loveliest-born  of  God ;' — 

whereupon  he  may  forget  that  he  is  one  of 
earth's  homeless  outcasts.  What  shall  bring 
joy  to  us,  if  there  be  none  in  the  work  of  His 
hands,  in  the  light  of  his  smile,  and  in  the 
breathing  of  his  life?  For  he  is  more  than 
the  Architect, — the  Fashioner  of  these  wheels, 
terrestrial  and  celestial ;  he  is  also  the  Spirit 
who  moves  within  them, — 

"  'And  where  he  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy.' 


150  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

You  remember  what  he  said,  who  was  the 
most  tirelessly  hopeful  and  energetic  soul  of 
song  in  our  century : 

"'God  tastes  an  infinite  joy 
In  infinite  ways — one  everlasting  bliss, 
From  whom  all  being  emanates,  all  power 
Proceeds ;  in  whom  is  life  for  evermore, 
Yet  whom  existence  in  its  lowest  form 
Includes.' 

But,"  he  said  shortly,  checking  himself,  "I 
must  not  forget  myself,  and  anticipate  the  de 
livery  of  my  sermon." 

"I  can  not  believe,"  said  the  teacher,  "that 
God  designed  our  unhappiness ;  for  in  him  and 
in  his  works  there  is  doubtless  a  boundless 
store  of  enjoyment;  but  men  will  persist  in  the 
manufacture  of  misery.  'If  you  want  troub', 
you  must  have  troub'/  as  the  irate  countryman 
said,  when  he  squared  up  to  his  tormentor, 
with  blazing  face  and  with  doubled  fists.  It 
seems  to  me  that  he  has  yet  only  religion's 
smaller  half,  who  can  not  exult  in  all  this  glory 
and  beauty  by  which  we  are  surrounded,  and 
for  it  thank  God  daily.  I  think  God  will  lay 
it  to  his  charge  who  will  not,  and  therefore  can 
not,  inherit  this  universal  portion ;  who  never 
comes  to  the  Mountain  of  Joyful  Appreciation, 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        151 

but  always  to  the  Mountain  of  Hate  and  Ter 
ror  ;  who  never  at  some  Gilgal  partition  of  lots 
puts  in  his  well-established  claim  to  arduous 
delight  and  glorious  difficulty ;  but  who,  in  all 
this  domain  once  the  location  of  a  Paradise, 
beholds  only  a  farm — a  market — a  manufac 
tory — a  drill-ground ;  and  who  would,  perhaps, 
if  he  had  his  way,  'change,'  if  we  may  use 
Ruskin's  phrase,  'himself  and  his  race  into 
vegetables.'  " 

"Let  us  hold  in  restraint  the  language  of 
scorn,"  said  the  minister,  "nor  overindulge  any 
sense  we  may  have  of  our  own  superiority. 
The  elements  of  contentment  and  of  the  sim 
pler  unencumbered  life  are  sown  in  every 
breast ;  but  unhappily  the  good  seed  is  choked. 
Let  us  lament  this,  and  labor  to  correct  it. 
And  let  us,  above  all  things,  cast  out  the  ma 
lignant  spirits,  'the  spites  and  the  follies ;'  for 
from  them  the  harvest  of  human  unhappiness 
is  great  upon  the  earth.  Who  would  sneer  at 
his  kind,  or  hate  his  fellow-men?  I  had  sooner 
sow  cockle  or  darnel  than  hatred  and  scorn. 
I  would  not,  as  Tennyson  avers,  shut  myself 
from  my  kind.  Who  of  us  would  share  the 
unblest  solitude  of  a  Vathek,  or  dwell  agoniz 
ingly,  with  Arouet,  in  a  false  society?  Surely, 


152  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

not  I !  Poor  Voltaire !  so  keen-sighted  toward 
the  'earth ;  so  purblind  toward  heaven  !  But 
I  am  talking  rather  stiffly  and  austerely.  We 
are  here  to  unbend,  and  to  exhibit  some  of  our 
lighter  wares.  Doctor,  you  have  been  silent. 
We  await  the  content  of  that  paper  you  hold, 
be  it  song  or  story." 

"I  have  heard  the  theory  advanced  and  ex 
pounded,"  began  the  doctor,  "that  the  reign  of 
the  poet  is  ended,  and  that  the  reign  of  the 
realist  and  the  scientist  has  begun.  Let  this 
be  so,  if  it  is  so,  or  can  be ;  but  I  am  a  stead 
fast  believer  that  poetry,  like  gold  and  fire, 
lies  at  the  root  of  the  universe ;  and  that,  as 
the  German  lyrist  has  it,  when  the  last  man 
marches  out  of  the  world  the  last  poet  will  go 
with  him.  This  faith  I  have  endeavored  to 
express  in  some  simple  rhymes : 

THE  END  OF  SONG. 

Of  Song's  divine  succession  sweet, 
Say,  can  there  ever  be  an  end  ? — 

Apollo's  golden  reign  complete — 
The  Muses'  latest  sonnet  penned? 

Nay !  not  while  rosy  morning  breaks, 
Or  evening  bathes  her  wings  in  dew ; 

Not  while  from  slumber  Love  awakes, 

And  Heaven  again  makes  all  things  new. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        153 

Not  till  the  spring  no  more  returns, 
And  hushed  is  Robin's  cheery  note, 

And  no  man  more  of  summer  learns 
From  Bob-o'-Lincoln's  madcap  throat. 

Not  while  the  bluebird's  carol  still 

From  winter  thrills  our  greening  vale ; 

Not  while  we  know  our  whip-poor-will, — 
England,  her  lark  and  nightingale. 

Because  our  Shakespeare  lies  in  dust, 
Because  our  Milton  sings  no  more, 

Fails  Song's  supreme,  immortal  trust? 
Is  her  harmonious  mission  o'er? 

By  all  the  passion  of  our  heart, 

By  all  our  yearnings,  all  our  dreams, 

Suns  may  decline,  and  suns  depart, — 
Still  on,  the  sacred  luster  streams. 

Still  music  lives  for  waking  ears, 

Still  beauty  glows  for  opening  eyes : 

The  bard,  the  minstrel,  disappears, — 
The  race  of  poets  never  dies. 

"We  can  but  regret,"  said  the  teacher,  "that 
the  poet  is  ordinarily  so  poorly  rewarded,  and 
that  he  is  so  reluctantly  applauded,  and  still 
more  reluctantly  paid.  Poetry  has  fared  but  ill 
in  the  market-place,  from  the  time  of  Spenser 
down.  Think  of  the  beggarly  life  of  Gold- 


154  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

smith,  and  the  squalor  and  gloom  of  his  sur 
roundings  !  He  is  obliged  to  say  of  Poesy, — 
'loveliest  maid/ — 

"  'My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride, 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first  and  keep'st  me  so.' 

Think  of  that  scrimping  measure  to  Spenser's 
prodigal  genius !  I  declare,  I  hope  it  was  no 
misrepresentation  of  Elizabeth's  spirit  that  Lan- 
dor  gives  us,  when  lie  makes  the  queen  say  to 
that  parsimonious  Cecil :  'I  would  not  from  the 
fountain  of  honor  give  luster  to  the  dull  and 
ignorant,  deadening  and  leaving  in  its  tomb  the 
lamp  of  literature  and  genius.  I  ardently  wish 
my  reign  to  be  remembered :  if  my  actions 
were  different  from  what  they  are,  I  should  as 
ardently  wish  it  to  be  forgotten.  Those  are 
the  worst  of  suicides,  who  voluntarily  and  pro- 
pensely  stab  or  suffocate  their  fame,  when  God 
hath  commanded  them  to  stand  on  high  for 
an  example.  .  .  .  Edmund  is  grave  and 
gentle:  he  complains  of  fortune,  not  of  Eliz 
abeth  ;  of  courts,  not  of  Cecil.  I  am  resolved, 
— so  help  me,  God ! — he  shall  have  no  further 
cause  for  repining.  Go,  convey  unto  him  those 
twelve  silver  spoons,  with  the  apostles  on  them, 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        155 

gloriously  gilded;  and  deliver  into  his  hands 
these  twelve  large  golden  pieces,  sufficing  for 
the  yearly  maintenance  of  another  horse  and 
groom.'  How  about  all  this?  'Fine  words/ 
we  are  told,  'butter  no  parsnips.'  I  suspect 
that  Burleigh  withheld  this  bounty,  to  let 
Spenser  starve,  if  he  must.  I  would  like  to 
recite  to  his  injurious  shade  a  quaint  old  legend 
of  Allan  Ramsay,  which  I  must  perforce  offer 
you  in  my  own  poor  phrase : 

"The  Eagle  once  gave  to  all  his  feathered 
subjects  a  great  reception  and  banquet.  Im 
mediately  upon  the  issuance  of  his  order  they 
came  nocking  'to  his  high  palace  of  the  rock,' 
his  courtiers  and  his  loyal  people ;  the  Tersels, 
the  Corbies,  the  Gleds,  the  Pyes,  the  Daws, 
the  Peacocks,  and  hundreds  more  out  of  the 
most  illustrious  families ;  and  all,  without  ques 
tion,  having  made  their  obeisance  to  their  mas 
ter,  took  their  places  at  his  board,  and  fell  to 
together  gorging  themselves  and  making  witty 
speeches,  amid  uproarious  laughter.  While 
they  sat  feasting  upon  fawn,  and  drinking  the 
warm  blood  of  lambs,  a  tuneful  little  Robin 
came  fluttering  near  them,  and,  resting  himself 
on  the  bough  of  a  bour-tree,  began  singing 
most  sweetly. 


156  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"He  sang  the  royal  line  of  the  Eagle ;  his 
kingly  right,  his  valiant  spirit,  his  voice  of 
terror,  and  the  piercing  luster  of  his  eye ;  his 
age  renewed,  his  sublime  flight  into  the  heav 
ens,  his  martial  prowess ;  but  loudest  of  all  he 
celebrated  his  Monarch's  noble  mind,  his  heart 
of  clemency,  his  guardianship  of  the  dread 
Jovian  thunderbolts,  and,  sweetest  of  all,  his 
ardency  and  tenderness  of  love.  The  royal 
entertainer  listened  in  delight  to  this  lay  of  the 
little  sylvan  poet  who,  not  venturing  to  sit  at 
the  table,  had  entertained  the  revelers  with  his 
music;  whereupon,  calling  the  Buzzard,  his 
favorite  chamberlain,  he  commissioned  him  to 
carry  to  the  minstrel  as  much  of  the  current 
coin  of  the  realm  as  would  suffice  for  a  twelve 
months'  support.  'We  can  well  spare  it,'  said 
the  Eagle,  'and  it  is  clearly  his  due.' 

"Forth,  with  deceit  in  his  heart,  and  a  lie 
in  his  beak,  went  the  Buzzard ;  and,  having 
reached  the  Robin's  perch,  he  said:  'Begone 
from  this  place.  Your  voice  is  so  harsh  and 
tuneless  you  have  deafened  His  Majesty,  and 
put  him  out  of  all  patience.  His  Majesty  has 
an  exquisite  ear,  and  can  no  longer  endure 
you.  I  counsel  you,  as  a  friend,  to  depart  from 
this  place,  and  to  return  hither  no  more.'  So 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        157 

into  his  own  pouch  the  Buzzard  put  the  gift 
of  the  grateful  king,  and  sullenly  departed. 

"Then  suddenly  Robin's  bosom  began  to 
swell,  and  the  tears  trickled  out  of  his  eyes. 
Low  drooped  his  wings,  and  he  moved  not,  but 
was  silent.  But  most  it  grieved  him,  not  that 
he  had  lost  the  tinsel  of  reward,  but  that  his 
song  was  scorned,  and  that  his  person  had  been 
affronted.  Still  he  sat  till  the  guests  had  de 
parted  ;  when,  spreading  his  wings  for  the 
wood  where  he  had  built  his  nest,  he  resolved 
to  sing  for  kings  and  courts  no  more." 

"And  should  you  choose  to  be  the  Buzzard 
or  the  Robin?"  the  minister  asked  him.  "No 
more  than  another  can  the  poet  have  every 
thing;  and  he  has  much  in  his  endowment, 
and  the  power  and  the  joy  which  it  gives  him. 
Should  he  meet  with  rebuffs,  he  should  be  best 
qualified  to  endure  them ;  the  grace  of  magna 
nimity  should  be  his,  for  he  has  in  himself 
a  royal  heritage.  Your  legend  from  Ramsay 
recalls  to  mind  another  quite  to  my  purpose, 
which  I  will  also  endeavor  in  unrhymed  terms 
to  render.  I  think  you  may  find  it  in  the  pages 
of  Schiller : 

"Once  upon  a  time  Jove  put  the  Earth  into 
Mankind's  possession,  and  bade  them  to  share 


158  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

it  wisely  and  like  brothers.  True  to  his  in 
stinct,  and  often  as  false  to  his  reason,  each 
one  appropriated  what  he  most  desired,  and 
that  with  little  delay.  The  Usurer  scrambled 
after  his  gold ;  the  Farmer  secured  his  field ; 
the  Merchant  laid  hold  on  his  merchandise  ; 
the  King  seized  on  crown  and  throne  and  all 
his  coveted  lands.  At  the  last  came  the  Poet ; 
but  he  was  too  late :  nothing  remained  to  him 
but  the  sky,  and  he  was  esteemed  as  a  pauper 
in  the  world.  Ascending  to  the  palace  hall  of 
Jove,  and  prostrating  himself  at  the  foot  of 
his  throne,  the  disappointed  Poet  exclaimed : 
'O  Great  Master!  is  there  no  portion  for  me?' 
'Laggard !'  replied  the  Sovereign  of  the  Stars, 
when  he  looked  upon  him,  'where  were  you 
when  the  world  was  apportioned,  that  you  did 
not  consider  your  interests?'  '/  ivas  close  be 
side  you,'  said  the  Poet,  'your  most  devoted 
one ;  I  was  close  beside  you,  Great  Master,  en 
raptured  with  the  beauty  of  your  presence  and 
the  glory  of  your  house.'  'Then/  sighed  the 
King  of  Heaven,  'I  would  not  you  should  re 
main  in  poverty ;  but,  alas !  I  have  given  the 
Earth  away :  nevertheless  the  door  of  my  house 
stands  open,  and  you  are  free  to  come  and  go 
and  to  abide  whenever  you  will.'  And  so  it 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        159 

comes  to  pass  that  the  Poet  has  been  a  sort  of 
celestial  vagrant  ever  since." 

"Heaven  bless  him !"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 
"He  is  welcome  at  my  door!" 

"Do  you  know,"  continued  the  minister, 
"whom  I  believe  to  have  been  the  happiest  man 
of  his  generation?  It  is  John  Wesley.  And 
that  is  precisely  because  there  was  no  man 
who  so  incessantly  gave  the  wealth  of  his  spirit 
to  others;  no  man  who  cared  so  little  for 
honors  and  effects  for  himself  alone,  being 
ashamed  to  die  with  too  much  of  any  good  still 
in  his  exclusive  possession.  The  fire  of  poetry 
gave  its  warmth  to  his  blood,  that  seemed  to 
flow  so  calmly, — but,  more  triumphantly,  the 
spirit  of  piety.  I  hear  him  singing : 

"  'No  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness : 

A  poor  wayfaring  man, 
I  lodge  awhile  in  tents  below ; 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro, 

Till  I  my  Canaan  gain. 

Nothing  on  earth  I  call  my  own; 
A  stranger,  to  the  world  unknown, 

I  all  their  goods  despise ; 
I  trample  on  their  whole  delight, 
And  seek  a  country  out  of  sight, 

A  country  in  the  skies. 


160  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

There  is  my  house  and  portion  fair ; 
My  treasure  and  my  heart  are  there, 

And  my  abiding  home ; 
For  me  my  elder  brethren  stay, 
And  angels  beckon  me  away, 

And  Jesus  bids  me  come.' 

May  we  not  believe  that  this  illustrious  way 
farer  has  long  since  seen  'the  King  in  his 
beauty/  who  in  the  days  we  share  with  him 
testified:  'The  little  birds  have  nests,  and  the 
foxes  have  their  dens  also,  but  the  Son  of  man 
hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head?'  Indeed,  the 
poet  who  is  true  to  his  high  vocation  has  little 
need  to  be  commiserated ;  and,  to  show  this  a 
little  more  clearly,  I  adduce  this  antique  legend, 
plucked  from  some  German  wastebasket : 

A  RHYME  OF  THE  MAGIC  BOOK. 
The  student  was  faint  and  hungry, 

He  was  gaunt,  and  lean,  and  pale ; 
He  left  his  book  and  his  garret  nook 

For  a  loaf  and  a  flagon  of  ale. 

His  cloak  was  so  faded  and  tattered, 

He  felt  the  sharp  wind  blow; 
And  where  he  trod,  his  feet,  ill-shod, 

Shrank  from  the  frosty  snow. 


*In  English,  this  transposition  of  subject  and  object  is 
confusing.  We  don't  know  whether  "the  nests  have  the 
birds,"  or  "  the  birds  have  the  nests."  Transpose  the  subject 
and  object  here,  to  express  the  exact  meaning. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        161 

He  counted  his  few  poor  pennies ; 

He  sighed :  "It  is  starve  or  freeze : 
My  fire  may  fail,  yet  to  bread  and  ale 

I  must  add  a  bit  of  cheese." 

So,  as  he  stood  in  the  market, 

And  waited  for  his  fare, 
His  eyes  did  scan  the  marketman, 

Who  a  poet's  book  did  tear. 

The  cheese  in  a  golden  leaflet 

He  wrapped  right  carelessly : — 
"Pray,  let  me  look  at  that  old  book," 

Said  the  student  eagerly. 

He  seized  and  pored  upon  it : 

"Now,  what  have  you  done !"  he  cries ; 
"You  wrap  with  a  poet's  perfect  page 

Your  paltry  merchandise ! 

The  tin  and  the  dross  you  favor 

At  every  rood  may  abound; 
But  the  priceless  thought,  like  your  gold,  may 
not 

So  easily  be  found." 

"A  fig  for  your  song!"  laughed  the  huckster; 

"Your  word  it  is  most  unwise; 
You  better  might  seize  on  my  good  cheese 

Than  that  parcel  of  poet's  lies." 
ii 


1 62  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"How  say  you  so  ?"  quoth  the  student ; 

"  'T  is  a  soothfast  saw,  well  worn  : 
To  the  merry  monarch  his  prized  pearl ; 

To  the  peasant  his  barleycorn. 

'T  is  true,  I  am  cold  and  hungry, 
And  I  have  but  pennies  three ; 

But,  if  you  please,  take  back  your  cheese, 
And  give  the  book  to  me." 

"Ay,  ay,  as  you  please,"  scoffed  the  huckster ; 

"Go,  starve  on  your  poet's  lay !" 
With  a  joyous  look,  the  student  took, 

And  bore  the  book  away. 

Now  a  kindly  heart  had  the  shopman, 
And  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease : 

"Is  it  well,"  quoth  he,  "though  a  fool  he  be, 
That  the  fellow  should  starve  and  freeze?" 

He  called  his  little  son  to  him — 

A  gentle  lad  and  rare : 
"Now,  hasten,  Ben,  to  that  student's  den, 

To  see  how  he  doth  fare. 

His  head  is  full  of  his  notions, 
As  a  puppy's  jacket  with  fleas: 

Yet,  here,"  he  said,  "take  this  loaf  of  bread, 
Along  with  this  bit  of  cheese." 

Then  through  the  streets  of  the  city 

The  gentle  youth  did  go, 
Where  from  dark  walls  to  the  lamplight  falls 

A  sparkling  dust  of  snow. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        163 

He  climbed  to  the  student's  garret; 

The  place  looked  mean  and  bare; 
Then  he  stood  before  a  battened  door, 

And  looked  through  a  knothole  there. 

The  coals  in  the  grate  were  dying ; 

One  candle  burned  dim  and  low ; 
While  a  broken  chair  and  a  table  bare 

Were  all  the  room  could  show. 

But  the  boy,  as  he  stood  gazing, 

Did  feel  a  sudden  stound; 
His  brain  did  reel,  and  like  a  wheel 

His  head  seemed  turning  round. 

He  heard  strange  whirring  voices, 
Strange  lights  flashed  in  his  eyes ; 

Then,  in  a  swound  all  sense  was  drowned : — 
At  last  he  did  arise. 

'T  was  the  open  door  of  a  palace 

That  then  he  deemed  he  saw; 
And  a  scene  within  where  the  cherubin 

Might  bend  in  holy  awe. 

There  sat  the  poor,  pale  student, 
Enthroned  in  that  splendid  place; 

While  a  mystic  light  from  the  book  shone 

bright, 
And  lit  up  his  pallid  face. 

WTith  a  lovely  starlike  luster 

His  eyes  entranced  shone; 
With  seerlike  sight  into  Art's  Delight, 

He  dwells  no  more  alone. 


164  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  poets  in  long  procession, 

Moved  round  his  dais  high ; 
While  music's  pages,  of  all  the  ages, 

Made  their  soft  melody. 

"Sure,  I  am  only  dreaming," 

Said  the  boy,  and  withdrew  his  eyes ; 

Then  he  rubbed  them  amain,  and  he  looked 

again, 
In  wondering  surmise. 

Yes,  there  was  the  royal  palace, 

And  the  kingly  man  on  his  throne ; 

And  the  bards  were  found  still  moving  round, 
And  singing  with  dulcet  tone. 

And  ever,  as  they  kept  singing, 

And  sweeping  their  harps  with  grace, 

Their  magical  skill  made  brighter  still, 
And  ampler,  seem  the  place. 

Then  came  a  beauteous  maiden, 
In  her  hand  a  wreathen  crown ; 

On  the  student's  brow  she  lays  it  now, 
And  by  his  side  sits  down. 

In  her  hand  a  wand,  star-pointed, 

She  held,  and  lifted  high ; 
On  her  hair  was  set  a  coronet, 

With  the  legend — Poesy. 

Then  changed  was  the  face  of  the  student, 

And  a  nobler  mien  he  bore 
Than  ever  on  earth,  since  the  day  of  his  birth, 

The  bov  had  seen  before. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        165 

The  book,  once  stained  and  tattered, 
Now  glowed  like  a  sunset  sea, 

As  it  lay  there,  as  a  missal  rare, 
Open  upon  his  knee. 

Home  went  the  lad  to  his  father, 

And  unto  him  he  said : 
"Poor  and  unknown  he  lives  alone, 

And  his  dwelling  is  a  shed. 

But,  father,  let  me  go  with  him, 

For  the  student  hath  found  a  prize ; 

And,  father,  he  can  use  a  talisman, 
And  he  sees  with  a  poet's  eyes; — 

And  he  than  a  monarch  is  richer — 
His  cup  flows  full  to  the  brim; 

And  the  wealthy  and  great,  in  their  splendor 

and  state, 
Have  reason  to  envy  him !" 

"I  would,"  pursued  the  minister,  "empha 
size  the  doctrine  of  the  Utility  of  Art.  It  has 
been  currently  reported  that  song  will  not 
bring  bread;  and  has  not  this  hard  maxim  been 
strained  into  us,  my  brethren,  with  icy  argu 
ment,  and  many  painful  examples  of  perishing 
poets  in  their  attics,  and  starved,  forlorn,  mel 
ancholy  minstrels?  Who  would  have  been  a 
Homer,  to  hold  his  hat  for  an  obolus?  What 


i66  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

a  doom  was  that  of  Chatterton !  How  signifi 
cantly  sorrowful  the  close  of  the  career  of 
Burns !  But  has  it  never  been  heard  by  any 
that  song  is  bread?  and  that,  though  men  will 
spend  their  money  for  that  which  is  not  such, — 
give  their  gold  for  some  like  hard,  heavy  sub 
stance, — heart  and  spirit  have  a  food  and  cur 
rency  of  their  own?  What  is  the  true  singer 
but  the  quickener?  Turn  the  pages  of  that 
Southern  minstrel*  who,  amid  disease,  pov 
erty,  and  neglect,  was  able  to  nourish  and  build 
up  his  own  spirit — and  none  can  do  that  with 
out  leaving  a  legacy,  and  bringing  a  benedic 
tion  to  the  world — turn  his  precious  pages,  I 
say,  till  you  come  to  Corn,  and  then  turn  on 
until  you  come  to  The  Bee;  and  then  pause 
there,  like  the  bee's  self,  atilt  on  a  flower,  to 
hear  what  the  singer  has  to  say : — 

"Wilt  ask,  What  profit  e'er  a  poet  brings? 
He  beareth  starry  stuff  about  his  wings 
To  pollen  thee  and  sting  thee  fertile. 

'Hast  ne'er  a  honey-drop  of  love  for  me, 
In  thy  huge  nectary?'" 

Blame,  praise, — do  what  you  will,  in  reason, 
but  pity  not  the  poet,  as  such;  the  man  may 

*  Sidney  Lanier. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        167 

need  your  pity,  and  crave  it ;  but  the  poet? — 
never !     A  desert  is  not  destitute  to  him ! 

"  'The  dark  hath  many  dear  avails ; 

The  dark  distills  divinest  dews ; 
The  dark  is  rich  with  nightingales, 

With  dreams,  and  with  the  heavenly  Muse.' " 

"True  it  is,"  said  the  doctor,  "the  poet  is 
forever  hearing  something  more  than  meets 
the  outward  ear,  and  seeing  something  diviner 
than  the  natural  eye  ever  discerns.  Like  Keats, 
his  eye  being  filmed  with  the  ointment  of 
beauty,  he  can  see  a  dryad  in  every  green  tree. 
He  can  never  see  a  forest  glade,  or  the  white 
sand  of  the  shore,  without  imagining  a  pro 
cession  of  beautiful  forms  ;  stately  as  those  that 
Milton  saw,  or  of  Shakespearean  grace  and 
loveliness.  Did  you  ever  stand  at  the  entrance 
of  some  woody  glen,  and  listen  to  the  laugh 
ing  fall  of  musical  water, — how  like  it  is  to  the 
voice  of  a  child?  The  Celtic  legend  of  Kil- 
meny,  the  beautiful  maiden  who  was  wiled 
away  into  the  faerie  world  of  thought  and 
dream,  is  repeated  among  the  primitive  people 
on  our  shores.  The  Indians  in  the  mountain 
region  of  New  Hampshire  tell  us  the  story  of 
a  little  child  who,  wandering  into  the  forest, 


1 68  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

was  met  by  the  fantastic  denizens  of  the  place, 
and  changed  into  one  of  their  own  kind.  I 
have  tried  to  put  the  legend  into  metrical  form, 
with  the  following  result : 

THE  WATERS  OF  CARR. 

O  do  you  hear  the  merry  waters  falling, 

In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr? 
O  do  you  hear  the  child's  voice  calling,  calling, 
Through  its  cloistral  deeps  afar? 
'T  is  the  Indian's  babe,  they  say, 
Fairy  stolen,  changed  a  fay : 
And  still  I  hear  her  calling,  calling,  calling, 
In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr ! 

O  hear  you,  when  the  weary  world  is  sleeping, 

(Dim  and  drowsy  every  star), 
This  little  one  her  happy  revels  keeping, 
In  her  halls  of  shining  spar? 

Clearer  swells  her  voice  of  glee, 
While  the  liquid  echoes  flee, 
And  the  full  moon  through  deep  green  leaves 

comes  peeping, 
In  the  dim-lit  woods  of  Carr. 

Know  ye  from  her  wigwam  how  they  drew  her, 

Wanton,  willing,  far  away, — 
Made  the  wild-wood  halls  seem  home  unto  her, 
Changed  her  to  a  laughing  fay? 
Never  does  her  bosom  burn, 
Never  asks  she  to  return ; — 
Ah,  vainly  care  and  sorrow  may  pursue  her, 
Laughing,  singing,  all  the  day ! 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        169 

And  often,  when  the  golden  west  is  burning, 

Ere  the  twilight's  earliest  star, 
Comes  her  mother,  led  by  mortal  yearning 
Where  the  haunted  forests  are ; — 
Listens  to  the  rapture  wild 
Of  her  vanished  fairy  child : 
Ah,  see  her  then,  with  smiles  and  tears,  returning, 
From  the  sunset  woods  of  Carr ! 

They  feed  her  with  the  amber  dew  and  honey, 

They  bathe  her  in  the  crystal  spring, 
They  set  her  down  in  open  spaces  sunny, 
And  weave  her  an  enchanted  ring ; 
They  will  not  let  her  beauty  die, 
Her  innocence  and  purity ; 
They  sweeten  her  fair  brow  with  kisses  many, 
And  ever  round  her  dance  and  sing. 

O  do  you  hear  the  merry  waters  falling, 

In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr? 
O  do  you  hear  the  child's  voice  calling,  calling, 
Through  its  cloistral  deeps  afar? 
Never  thrill  of  plaintive  pain 
Mingles  with  that  ceaseless  strain ; — 
But  still  I  hear  her  joyous  calling,  calling, 
In  the  morning  woods  of  Carr ! 

"It  is  fortunate  for  us,"  said  the  teacher, 
"when  our  fantasies  are  so  full  of  light  and 
grace  and  happy  music.  Some  that  I  wot  of 
are  full  of  Hadean  gloom  or  of  sepulchral 
ghastliness.  When  I  think  of  the  dismal  su 
perstitions  that  once  dominated  the  human 


170  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

spirit,  I  feel  glad  to  remember  that  we  live  in 
an  age  when  we  are  relieved  of  some  of  them ; 
even  though  we  may  have  been  delivered  into 
the  hands  of  that  other  demon  of  doubt.  Here 
is  a  legend  of  the  days  of  spiritual  terror, 
which  I  found  in  the  pages  of  Heine ;  and 
which,  while  he  gives  it  to  us  in  his  perfect 
prose,  I  have  perhaps  spoiled  by  my  clumsy 
versifying : 

THE  NIGHTINGALE  OF  BASLE. 

MAY,  1433. 

In  august  council  sternly  set, 

The  reverend  fathers  once  were  met, 

At  Basle's  ancient  town : 
Prelates  were  there  of  high  degree, 
And  many  a  learned  society, 

That  wore  the  cope  and  gown. 

Then,  in  some  session's  interval, 
In  converse,  abbot,  cardinal, 

Together  strolled  along 
A  sheltered  path,  where  from  the  trees 
Came  the  wind's  softest  melodies, 

And  many  a  wild  bird's  song. 

But  to  their  ears  seemed  nature  mute; — 
Engaged  in  many  a  fierce  dispute, 
They  heard  her  music  not : 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        171 

Long-moldy  dogmas  they  restated ; 
And  these,  most  furiously  debated, 
Filled  all  their  round  of  thought. 

Whether  Aquinas  greater  were 
Than  Doctor  Bonaventura  ; — 

If  pause  in  heaven  might  be: 
Shrill  were  their  tones,  their  looks  were  glum ; 
Vexed,  as  of  old,  with  tweedledum, 

And  puzzling  tweedledee. 

But,  on  an  instant,  rapturously 
Forth  from  a  blooming  linden-tree, 

Such  throbbing  notes  did  start, 
As  fill  at  eve  some  moonlit  vale, 
When  pours  the  passioned  nightingale 

The  fullness  of  her  heart. 

Surprised  by  that  delicious  flood, 
Transfixed  before  the  tree  they  stood, 

And  listened  in  delight ; 
Such  golden  melodies  were  trolled, 
A  little  space  their  dogmas  old 

Evanished  from  their  sight. 

The  scents  and  sounds  of  spring  again 
Did  penetrate  the  misty  brain 

Of  each  tanned  theologue : 
Till  one  cried  :  "Cease  !    Enough  we  've  heard ! 
The  devil  may  be  in  a  bird, 

As  well  as  in  a  dog !" 


172  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Before  them  yawned  Hell's  dark  abysm ! 
With  many  a  muttered  exorcism, 

Himself  each  brother  crossed  : 
"From  pious  themes,  from  counsels  pure, 
He  draws  us  with  voluptuous  lure : 

Hasten !  or  all  is  lost !" 

With  that,  the  tree  seemed  all  aflame, 
And  sounds  of  mocking  laughter  came 

Out  of  the  linden  gay : 
"Yes,  I  'm  a  fiend,"  a  sweet  voice  said ; 
"So  you  do  well  to  be  afraid  !" 

Then  flew  the  bird  away. 

But,  in  that  very  eventide, 

The  legend  saith,  each  brother  died, 

Whose  ears  that  song  assailed ; 
Not  the  exorcist's  muttered  spell, 
Not  all  the  pattering  beads  they  tell, 

Nor  e'en  the  cross,  availed. 

But,  if  the  truth  might  be  believed, — 
(For  slowness  of  our  faith  hath  grieved 

The  bravest  souls  that  be), 
No  evil  in  the  bird  o'erthrew 
Those  pious  monks  of  old,  nor  slew 

Those  doctors  of  degree. 

Dark  souls,  alas !  and  prostrate  age, 
That  superstition's  bitterest  rage 

Could  ever  so  assail ! 
They  slandered  nature's  loveliness, 
Darkened  the  linden's  flowery  dress, 

Proscribed  the  nightingale! 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        173 

Ah  !  happier  souls  !  with  fearless  eyes 
Who  find  delight  in  seas  and  skies, 

Who  earth's  green  realms  explore ! 
No  more  such  haunting  shadow  falls 
Down  the  sun-rifted  woodland  halls, 

Or  the  sea^beaten  shore. 

But  true  it  ever  is,  in  day 
Like  that  of  Basle,  far  away, 

Or  time,  like  ours,  more  near; 
One  step  there  is — surer  than  fate — 
The  step  from  theologic  hate 

To  superstitious  fear. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  your  priest,"  said 
the  doctor,  "and  of  his  remark  concerning  the 
dog.  I  wonder  if  the  canine  breed  is  more 
susceptible  to  demoniacal  than  to  divine  pos 
session.  I  have  indeed  seen  dogs  that  were 
vile  enough,  wild,  mad,  hideous,  hateful  dogs, 
that  might  well  have  had  a  devil  in  them ;  and, 
again,  I  have  seen  them  with  a  sweetness  of 
temper  and  a  constancy  of  devotion  almost 
superhuman.  These  are  the  nobility  of  dogs. 
If  dogs  have  not  souls,  these  at  least  deserve 
them,  for  they  live  as  if  they  had  them.  On 
a  recent  evening,  when  I  read  my  Bible,  and 
came  upon  these  words,  'Without  are  dogs'  I 
could  not  forbear  this  comment :  'Good  Carlo — • 
shaggy  Caesar,  from  Newfoundland — honest 


174  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Luath — Owd  Roa — Flush,  my  dog — thou  dog 
of  St.  Bernard — and  each  other  decent  mem 
ber  of  the  canine  brotherhood, — surely  this 
sentence  of  celestial  banishment  has  no  refer 
ence  to  you.  It  is  the  currish,  unclean,  ignoble 
tribe  that  shall  be  excluded.  And,  as  for  the 
warning,  "Beware  of  dogs !"  neither  can  that 
be  fairly  applied  to  you.  O  Rab!  O  Maida! 
and  thou  for  whom  Sheelah  pleaded  in  dying ! 
fear  nothing:  it  may  go  ill  with  some  of  your 
masters ;  but  surely  it  shall  be  well  with  you. 
You  were  not  excluded  from  this  green  earth 
of  God's,  and  from  his  blue  sky :  so  bark  glee 
fully,  and  take  courage.' 

"A  talkative  woman,  who  carried  with  her 
a  dismal  face — and  a  poodle,  called  on  a  good 
minister  in  his  last  illness — a  minister  who  was 
notorious  for  his  wit  and  his  clear  sense.  The 
woman  chattered  tediously;  but  to  the  poodle, 
who  looked  silently  and  sympathetically  upon 
him,  the  old  man  in  a  weak  voice  addressed 
most  of  his  conversation.  When  the  woman 
arose  to  go,  he  shook  the  doggie's  paw,  and 
said,  with  a  little  sigh :  'Well,  good-bye,  Fido. 
Be  a  good  dog,  and  you  '11  go  where  the  good 
dogs  go.' 

"  'Where  is  your  dog?' 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        175 

"The  question  was  answered  hopefully,  and 
by  a  clergyman : 

"  'In  heaven,  if  he  has  been  a  good  dog.' 

"I  have  no  objection. 

"So,  when  I  read  in  that  final  summing  up 
of  the  Apocalypse,  'Without  are  dogs'  I  am 
inclined  to  put  a  liberal  interpretation  upon  its 
reference  to  the  antipodes  of  the  faithful." 

"I  do  not  know,"  observed  the  minister, 
"that  the  dog  is  anywhere  in  Scripture  asso 
ciated  with  the  mystic,  the  spiritual,  or  the 
supernatural,  as  are  the  lamb  and  the  dove. 
We  must  come  to  the  Gael  or  the  Scandinavian 
for  that  association;  and  I  suppose  it  to  be 
wholly  owing  to  the  inferior  Oriental  breed. 
But  the  dog  figures  mainly  in  the  realm  of 
superstition ;  and  here  I  recall  the  Celtic  legend 
of  the  Banshee, — the  female  fairy  who,  in  Irish 
peasant  homes,  is  supposed,  by  her  wailing, 
or  singing,  under  the  windows  at  night  to  fore 
tell  the  death  of  one  of  the  family.  With  this 
midnight  cry  the  howling  of  the  house  dog 
was  associated.  So,  Allingham: 

"  'I  heard  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night, 
And  I  went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight ; 
All  the  dead  that  ever  I  knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two.' 


176  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

A  similar  legend  is,  in  our  own  country,  asso 
ciated  with  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will.  One 
evening,  in  the  early  autumn  of  18 — ,  I  had 
left  the  Nobleboro  Camp-meeting  Ground  for 
a  quiet  walk  along  a  lonely  road  that  led 
through  a  pine  wood.  As  I  moved  along,  with 
that  pleasing  feeling  of  awe  and  alluring  dread 
which  unfamiliar,  shadowy  places  will  inspire, 
in  the  deep  woods  not  far  away  from  me  I 
heard  a  whip-poor-will,  whose  intermittent 
lament  awakened  in  me  the  most  indefinable 
sensation  that  a  bird  has  ever  inspired.  And 
when  I  awoke  at  midnight,  to  hear  through 
my  open  window  the  same  sound,  I  aver  it 
tested  some  latent  capacity  that  is  in  me  for 
superstitious  feeling. 

"If  you  will  bear  with  me,  I  will  give  you 
some  account  of  the  matter  in  the  following 
rhapsody : 

"THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Mine  is  the  solitary  road. 

Glooms  of  evening  deepen  all  around  me ; 

Distant  gleam  the  lights  of  the  encampment; 

The  rain-portending  zephyr  caresses  me, 

Blown  out  of  the  shadowy  East : 

A  long  dimming  tract ;  a  path  fading  at  eventide ; 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        177 

A  poet's  book — the  singer  of  wonderful  child- 
songs, 

Smiling  out  upon  me  from  the  Vale  of  Har : 
A  dream-world  all  around  me ; — 
The  assembled  ghostly  companions, 
And  guests  of  Memory.     .     .     . 
.     .     .     The  voice  of  the  whip-poor-will ! 

A  path  that  turns  aside  into  the  pine  woods — 

A  sanctuary  of  the  night-breathing  wind ; — 

An  infinite,  satisfied  sigh — 

The  entering  of  a  soul  into  eternity's  repose. 

Then  comes  a  susurrus — a  longer  surge — 

A  sound  of  far-off  seas — 

A  billowy  echo— voices  of  haunted  shores    .    .    . 

Hark!    What  sound  rises  out  of  the  wildwood? 

It  is  the  wail  of  my  heart, — 

A  mingled  utterance  of  longing  and  regret    .    .    . 

.     .     .     The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will ! 

Up  through  the  brown  floor  of  the  pine  woods 

Have  arisen  the  spirits  of  the  place — 

The  pale-green,  delicate  ferns, 

The  sisterhood  of  this  forest  nunnery. 

They  tremble  and  wave, 

Like  sentient,  living  creatures, 

And  nod,  conversing  with  one  another. 

I  can  almost  hear  their  elfin  voices ; 

Their  faces  are  pale  in  the  dim  arbor 

Where  they  are  clustering; — 

They  stand,  like  the  choristers  of  a  temple 

When  the  anthem  is  about  to  begin ; 

They  fill  me  with  awesome  delight. 


178  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Then,  out  of  the  thicket's  deep  comes  forth  a  ten 
der  lamentation, 

A  weeping  note,  repeated  and  repeated     .     .     . 
.     .     .     The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will ! 

And  I  hear  it,  again  and  again, 

As  I  wander  back  to  the  encampment     .     .     . 

Then  again,  at  midnight, 

I  start  out  of  my  sleep,  as  if  some  one  near  me 
had  spoken, — 

Forsaking  my  dream ; — 

When  through  the  open  window  comes  the  self 
same  sound, — 

The  plaintive  call,  the  threshing  wheep-to- 
wheep!    .    .    . 

.     .     .     The  voice  of  the  whip-poor-will ! 

What  meanest  thou,  O  bird? — 

0  bird,  or  haunting  Spirit, 
Pursuing  my  wandering  feet, 
Breaking  my  lonely  slumber, 
Here  in  the  wilderness ! 

Grievest  thou  for  the  grief  that  must  rend  my 

bosom ; 
For  the  beloved  and  the  beautiful  that  are  reft 

away  ? 

Ah !  no,  sweet  bird  ! 
It  is  for  the  solace  of  thy  love  thou  singest : 

1  will  not  accuse  thee,  and  call  thee  a  prophet 

of  ill. 

Still  will  I  listen  at  evening  to  the  sound  that  has 
been  my  delight — 

The  voice  of  the  whip-poor-will. 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        179 

"Ay,  that  is  a  true  account  of  the  whip-poor- 
will,"  said  the  doctor.  "One  summer  evening 
I  had  made  a  call  on  a  sick  girl  at  a  farm 
house  near  a  tract  of  woods.  I  was  just  leav 
ing,  and  the  farmer  followed  me  out  into  the 
yard ;  when,  on  one  of  the  outlying  apple-trees 
of  his  orchard,  a  whip-poor-will  from  the 
near-by  thicket  set  up  its  threshing  note.  The 
farmer  looked  ruefully  in  the  bird's  direction, 
shook  his  head,  and  said,  in  a  tone  half  petu 
lant,  half  disconsolate:  'There,  I  wish  that 
thing  would  keep  away !  I  have  always  heard 
it  before  the  death  of  my  friends.  I  fear  now 

that  M will  not  get  up  again.'     I  said, 

'Did  you  ever  lose  any  in  the  winter?'  He 
answered  affirmatively.  'Then,'  I  asked,  'did 
you  hear  the  whip-poor-will?'  He  laughed, 
and  said,  'I  guess  not.'  The  fact  was,  his 
daughter  recovered,  and  is  yet  living.  But, 
since  you  have  given  us  this  touch  of  mysti 
cism  and  superstition,  let  me,  by  way  of  an 
alterative,  bring  forward  a  more  cheerful 
legend.  More  than  twenty  years  since,  I  was 
walking  with  a  quaint  old  minister  through  a 
bit  of  sweet  pasture  land,  in  the  edge  of  a  June 
evening,  when  suddenly  a  sturdy  robin  set  up 
his  evensong.  'What  is  that  fellow  saying?' 


i  So  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

asked  my  companion.  I  listened  intently  and 
reflectively  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  said : 
'I  can  not  tell  you.  Anything  you  wish  to 
hear,  I  suppose.'  'Well,  I  will  tell  you:  He 
says — But  what  he  said,  I  think  I  will  ven 
ture  to  put  in  rhyme : 

DOCTOR  ROBIN. 

Forth,  one  evening,  bent  on  ranging, 
When  winter  into  spring  was  changing, 
I  went — with  blues  still  deeper  bluing, 
And  all  the  ghosts  of  night  pursuing: 
Through  April  clouds  the  sun  was  breaking, — 
But  O,  my  head — my  head  was  aching, — 
My  feet  were  cold,  my  ears  were  ringing, — 
When  Doctor  Robin  set  up  singing : 

"O,  cheer-er  up,  chee-er! 

See  here!    See  here! 
What  is  the  matter — what  is  the  matter, 
That  you  are  so  glum,  and  not  any  fatter? 

What  is  it!    What  is  it! 

Is  it  phthisic ?    Is  it  phthisic f 
Keel  'im,  cure  'im,  gecve  'im  phy-sickc!" 

"Doctor !"  I  cried,  "In  an  abysm 

I  'm  plunged — of  gout  and  rheumatism ! 

I  've  meningitis  and  paresis, 

And  half  a  score  of  dread  diseases ; 

Dyspepsia,  and  consumption,  too, 

My  hesitating  steps  pursue; 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        181 

Low  fever  to  my  blood  is  clinging: — " 
But  Doctor  Robin  kept  on  singing: 
"O  cheer-up,  cheer-er,"  etc. 

"No,  sir!  however  you  may  watch  me, 
So  napping  you  shall  never  catch  me ! 
Throw  physic  to  the  dogs  and  fishes," 
I  said,  with  many  pshaws  and  pishes: 
"Besides  (himself  each  mortal  pleases), 
I  have,  and  like,  my  pet  diseases : 
Worse  am  I,  alway,  by  my  notion, 
With  every  pesky  pill  or  potion 
The  doctor  or  the  nurse  are  bringing:" — 
But  Doctor  Robin  would  be  singing: 
"O  cheer-up,  cheer-er,"  etc. 

"Well,"  said  I,  yielding,  "cease  your  jibing, 
And  presently  begin  prescribing." 
"I  will,"  said  Doctor  Bob,  benignly : 
"Abstain  from  'swats  that  drink  divinely;' 
Take  three  bread-pills,  upon  retiring; 
Use  one  old  saw,  until  perspiring; 
Your  sulky  spleen  remember  never, 
And  do  not  overload  your  liver : 
When  in  the  morning  round  you  potter, 
Drink  one  good  quart  of  clear  cold  water; 
Take  exercise,  up  to  the  letter ; 
Then,  in  a  fortnight  you  '11  be  better. 
Good-night,  sad  sir,  I  must  be  winging, — 
But  first,  I  '11  take  my  pay — in  singing: 

So  cheer-er  up,  chee-er! 

See  here!    See  here! 


1 82  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

What  is  the  matter — what  is  the  matter, 
That  you  are  so  glum,  and  not  any  fatter? 

What  is  it!    What  is  it! 

Is  it  phthisic?    Is  it  phthisic? 
Keel  'im,  cure  'im,  geeve  'im  phy-sicke!'" 

"In  matters  of  hygiene  and  the  matcria 
medica,"  said  the  teacher,  "there  appear  to  be 
two  classes  of  infatuated  errorists,  both  bent 
on  an  extreme ;  those  who  think  they  need  the 
doctor  all  the  time,  and  those  who  think  they 
never  need  him ;  and  those  who,  when  they  do 
call  him,  neglect  his  prescription, — like  that 
witty  fellow  who  said  to  his  physician  that, 
had  he  followed  his  prescription,  he  must  have 
broken  his  neck,  since  he  thre\v  it  out  of  an 
upstairs  window.  There  is  a  foolish,  as  well 
as  a  wise,  bent  of  the  will ;  and  some  persons 
seem  never  so  determined  as  when  they  are  in 
the  wrong.  They  thought  so  once,  and  that  is 
enough :  you  come  back  three  ages  afterwards, 
and  find  them  saying  the  same." 

"I  use  food  when  I  hunger ;  and  when  I  need 
it  I  use  medicine,"  said  the  minister.  "In  the 
one  case  I  employ  the  farmer,  and  in  the  other 
the  doctor ;  but  in  both  cases  I  most  intimately 
rely  on  my  Infinite  Physician  and  Nourisher, 
who  gives  life  and  maintains  its  processes.  I 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        183 

do  not  thereby  neglect  or  discredit  him,  for 
he  puts  bread  into  my  hands  through  the 
course  of  nature  and  of  human  industry;  and 
it  is  he  who  has  put  their  healing  and  curative 
properties  into  plants  and  minerals.  But  let 
me  read  to  you  an  almost  sacramental  passage 
from  the  pages  of  Pastor  Wagner,  upon  the 
'growth  of  wheat:  'By  the  bread  that  Christ 
broke  one  evening  in  sign  of  redeeming  sacri 
fice  and  everlasting  communion,  we  can  say 
that  wheat  entered  into  its  apotheosis.  Noth 
ing  that  concerns  it  is  indifferent  to  us.  ... 
From  the  day  that  it  comes  out  of  the  earth 
to  the  last  rays  of  the  October  sun,  through 
out  the  long  sleep  of  winter,  the  awakening  of 
the  spring,  to  the  harvest  in  August,  our  atten 
tion  follows  the  evolution  of  the  tender  green 
blade,  destined  to  become  the  nourishment  of 
men.  In  time  it  is  a  swelling  sea  of  green, 
constellated  with  poppies  and  bluebottles.  .  .  . 
In  July  the  fields  look  like  gold.  And  when 
the  wind  blows  and  rustles  the  stalks  together, 
we  seem  to  hear  the  grain  running  in  the  bushel 
measures.  The  bread  sings  in  it  in  fine 
weather;  but  if  the  horizon  darkens  a  shiver 
runs  through  the  stalks,  as  in  the  heart  of  the 
peasant.  ...  At  last  is  the  harvest,  the 


184  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

barn,  the  threshers.  Then  comes  the  grinding 
in  the  mill,  and  the  kneading  by  bakers  and 
housewives.  The  bread  is  on  the  table.  Be 
fore  eating  it,  think  that  it  is  the  fruit  of  the 
labor  of  men  and  of  the  Son  of  God.  Take  it 
in  gratitude  and  fraternal  love.  Do  not  suffer 
a  crumb  to  be  lost.  Break  it  willingly  with 
those  who  have  none.  As  the  wind  blows,  as 
the  fountain  gushes,  as  the  morning  brightens, 
so  wheat  grows  for  all.'  But  come,  since  the 
Sabbath  approaches,  let  us,  before  parting, 
greet  its  coming  with  devotion.  The  Greek  sage, 
who  was  master  of  the  purest  philosophy,  put 
up  his  orison  under  the  open  sky  and  amid  the 
green  fields  with  his  disciples ;  how  much  more 
our  Master,  when  amid  the  hills  and  by  the 
waters  of  Galilee?  The  morning  of  thy  day 
rises  upon  us,  O  thou  Heavenly  One!  Come 
thou  with  thy  joyous  symbol,  which  is  for  the 
enlightening  of  the  Jewish  and  the  Gentile 
lands.  So  art  thou  for  all  human  hearts.  We 
shall  rejoice  in  his  beams,  and  in  thine.  But 
if,  perchance,  he  should  be  hidden  from  our 
eyes,  or  should  cease  before  the  closing  of  the 
day,  let  not  thy  light  fail  us.  nor  thou,  our 
adored,  our  most  hallowed,  and  beauteous  One, 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        185 

withdraw  thyself,  leaving  us  weary  wayfarers 
on  a  benighted  road. 

'Leave  us  not  to  storm  and  terror, 
Leave  us  not  to  doubt  and  error, 

Light  and  healing  of  our  hearts !' " 

Then,  taking  a  Bible  from  the  desk,  he  con 
tinued  :  "Ah,  how  I  love  this  Book !  Many 
books  are  good  to  me ;  but  this  is  like  a  daugh 
ter  of  the  gods  amid  a  bevy  of  common  beau 
ties.  I  love  this  Book  with  my  heart,  for  it 
answers  the  cry  of  my  heart ;  I  love  it  with  my 
intellect,  for  I  am  awed  before  it,  and  it  com 
mands  the  suffrage  of  mightiest  minds ;  I  love 
it  with  my  will,  for  I,  too,  can  say,  in  my  meas 
ure  of  power,  'I  delight  to  do  thy  will,  O  God  !' 
I  love  it  with  my  aesthetic  perception,  for  it  is 
like  honey  under  my  tongue,  and  nothing  is 
like  its  wondrous  expression.  I  say  with 
Bacon,  that  no  agency  has  done  so  much  to 
exalt  our  race ;  with  Milton,  that  'there  are  no 
songs  like  the  Psalms  of  David;'  with  Fuller, 
'How  fruitful  are  the  seeming  barren  places 
of  Scripture!'  .  .  .  Wheresoever  the  sur 
face  of  God's  Word  doth  not  laugh  and  sing 
with  corn,  there  the  heart  thereof  within  is 


1 86  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

merry ;'  and  with  Hamilton,  'The  pearl  is  of 
great  price ;  but  even  the  casket  is  of  exquisite 
beauty.  The  sword  is  of  ethereal  temper,  and 
nothing  cuts  so  keen  as  its  double  edge ;  but 
there  are  jewels  on  the  hilt,  and  exquisite  in 
laying  on  the  scabbard.  The  shekels  are  of 
the  purest  ore ;  but  even  the  scrip  which  con 
tains  them  is  of  a  texture  more  curious  than 
the  artists  of  earth  could  fashion  it.  The 
apples  are  gold ;  but  even  the  basket  is  silver.' 
Yesterday  I  read  some  of  the  noblest  passages 
written  in  our  English  tongue ;  but  when  I  had 
done  so,  and  had  come  at  evening  to  the  Book, 
the  words  my  eyes  dwelt  upon  seemed  more 
divinely  beautiful  than  all.  I  will  read  them, 
and  then  we  will  sing  a  hymn : 

"Now  these  be  the  last  words  of  David.  David 
the  son  of  Jesse  said,  and  the  man  who  was  raised  up 
on  high,  the  anointed  of  the  God  of  Jacob,  and  the 
sweet  psalmist  of  Israel,  said : 

"The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  spake  by  me,  and  his 
word  was  in  my  tongue. 

"The  God  of  Israel  said,  the  Rock  of  Israel  spake 
to  me,  He  that  ruleth  over  men  must  be  just,  ruling 
in  the  fear  of  God. 

"And  he  shall  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning, 
when  the  sun  riseth,  even  a  morning  without  clouds ; 
as  the  tender  grass  springing  out  of  the  earth  by  clear 
shining  after  rain." 


Minister's  Saturday  Evening.        187 

The  minister  closed  the  Book,  and  named 
the  hymn,  which  the  three  united  to  sing: 

"Bread  of  the  world,  in  mercy  broken, 

Wine  of  the  soul,  in  mercy  shed, 
By  whom  the  words  of  life  were  spoken, 
And  in  whose  death  our  sins  are  dead ; 

Who  wast  made  flesh  our  souls  to  cherish, 
Who  godlike  tread'st  Time's  angry  wave ; 

Who,  lest  the  sons  of  men  should  perish, 
Became  omnipotent  to  save ; 

Whose  sacred  wounds  aloud  are  crying, — 
'These  bleeding  tokens,  Father,  see !' 

Our  living  Lord,  our  hope  in  dying, 
We  cast  our  helpless  souls  on  thee ! 

Look  on  the  heart  by  sorrow  broken, 
Look  on  the  tears  by  sorrow  shed ; 

And  be  thy  feast  to  us  the  token 

That  by  thy  grace  our  souls  are  fed."  * 

Having  finished  the  singing,  they  went  forth 
into  the  open  air.  The  stars  were  vivid,  while 
yet  the  full  moon  rode  high  in  the  naked 
heavens.  A  peculiar  softness  and  balminess 
in  the  air,  with  a  sense  of  the  gracious  sub 
limity  of  that  great  house  of  God,  with  its  roof 
sparkling  over  them,  constrained  them  to  bare 
their  brows  for  a  moment ;  whereupon,  taking 
the  minister  by  the  hand,  with  a  good-night, 
his  guests  departed. 

*The  first  stanza  and  the  last  are  by  Bishop  Heber. 


Winter  on  t^e  $enob$cot 


i. 


"The  white  glory  overawes  me ; 
The  crystal  terror  of  the  seer 
Of  Chebar's  vision  blinds  me  here." 

— Whittier. 

A  SCATTERED  flight  of  snowbirds.  All  day 
the  feathery  flakes  have  softly  fallen,  and 
before  evening  the  fields  and  roads  are  beau 
tifully  muffled.  The  trees  and  fences  are  im- 
pearled.  I  think  of  one  poet's  spiritual  inter 
pretation  : 

"The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels." 

Silence  settles  with  the  night;  the  earth  lies 
entranced.  Afterward  comes  the  rain. 

Hark !  it  is  the  rising  wind !  It  bespeaks 
the  arrival  of  change — the  entrance  of  a  trans 
forming  spirit.  What  a  Protean  nature  is  this ! 
The  Arctic  sculptor  is  in  his  studio;  this 
builder  is  busy  with  "the  frolic  architecture" 
188 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  189 

of  the  frost.  Could  we  see,  we  might  note  how 
the  gray  cloud  has  darkened.  By  and  by  the 
moon  is  a  bright  knot  in  a  swirl  of  frosty 
vapors.  The  little  moon-people  will  be  danc 
ing  down  the  Sowadabscook,  and  will  hold 
high  revels  on  the  glassy  plain  of  the  Penob 
scot  to-night.  Yet  dreaming  mortals  little  con 
ceive  what  the  daybreak  shall  disclose. 

II. 
"O  winter !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year 

I  crown  thee  "King"  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness." 
— Cowper,  "The  Task." 

Madam  Januarius  alights  from  her  coach 
with  more  than  her  usual  bustle ;  with  a  breezy 
impertinence  she  unpacks  her  wardrobe  and 
spreads  her  frosty  sheets  for  the  night.  Cold 
is  the  comfort  of  that  traveler  she  entertains. 
She  is  an  immaculate  termagant ;  and,  turn 
ing  from  the  window,  I  manage  to  seat  myself 
far  enough  from  her  humors  to  enjoy,  in 
philosophic  composure  and  imaginative  com 
fort,  that  milder  clime — the  fireside.  Jessica 
draws  the  blind — a  clean  linen  veil  between 
light  and  darkness,  storm  and  calm — that 


Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

magic  hem  separating  the  garments  of  fulgent 
Therma  and  flinty-hearted  Zero,  that  most  un 
feeling  crystal !  I  give  the  fire  another  poke 
between  the  bars,  and  then  take  down  from 
its  place  on  the  shelf  my  volume  of  "Spare 
Hours,"  or  my  Lowell,  or  Burroughs,  at  a 
venture.  To-night  no  guest  will  come ;  this  is 
entertainment  for  an  evening.  Again  I  will 
get  to  thinking:  Who  makes  Rab  the  jewel  he 
is ;  and  Mar j one  that  bright  child-shadow  un 
dying  ? 

III. 
"Return,  sweet  evening,  and  continue  long! 

Composure  is  thy  gift." 

— Cowper,  "The  Task." 

I  muse  over  this  book  of  peculiar  charm, 
and  venerate  an  overfamiliar,  much-honored 
name,  borne  by  peoples  so  diverse.  John 
Brown !  At  Harper's  Ferry  it  meant  war ; 
on  Calton  Hill  it  signifies  peace.  Dear  Rab, 
and  dear  Marjorie ! — how  will  you  resolve  me 
the  peculiar  subtlety  of  their  spell  ?  The  style 
seems  felicity  itself.  There  are  no  double  rain 
bows,  no  sun-bursts  to  dazzle  you,  but  this 
author  sets  you  down  at  the  feet  of  quieter 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  191 

beauty,  and  makes  you  feel  at  home.    Enumer 
ate,  if  you  please,  the  list  of  his  generous  ele 
ments,  so  deftly  combined.     Give  us  a  sort  of 
inventory.    Imprimis:  "A  well  of  English  un- 
defiled;"   a  certainty  of  touch;  strength  and 
gentleness ;  clarity  of  sense,  with  poetic  color ; 
a  turn  for  the  practical,  well  united  to  his  taste 
and  his  genial  fancy ;  tenderness  of  heart,  sym 
pathy  with  all  life — at  depth  with  human  life ; 
a  tendency  to  humanitarianism  ;  a  partiality  for 
dogs, — like  that  of  Scott,  yet  different;  per 
vasive  bookishness,  with  a  genuine  love  of  na 
ture  and  a  deep  attachment  to  the  "land  of 
brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood,"  and  a  liberal 
acquaintance    therewith.      Well,    is    this    all? 
And  is  not  this  a  list  sufficient  to  stock  the 
man  of  your  choice,  withal?    We  will  suppose 
others :  A  breathing  sweet  with  poetic  odors 
of  all  time,  his  thought  exhaling  the  effluvia 
of  richest  minds,  of  old  fragrant  writings — 
the  musk  and  lavender  of  anciency;  a  per 
ception   of  best  things ;  a   delicate   appropri 
ateness  in  quotation,  as  if  Milton  or  Shake 
speare  had  just  coined  a  brand-new  text  fit 
for  his  purpose ;  a  passion  for  the  child  and 
the   maiden,   pure   as   dew ;   filial   honor   and 
devotion,  as  he  shall  say  who  reads  the  mono- 


192  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

graph  on  his  father — a  pattern  of  all  such 
things;  an  appreciation,  a  portraiture;  a 
deep  enjoyment  of  Scott  and  Thackeray ;  an 
unfailing  freshness  and  wholesomeness,  tonic 
and  stimulant ;  a  bracing  morality — a  morality 
never  prudish  or  pharisaical.  All  these  things 
we  find,  with  a  peculiar  gratefulness  in  the 
finding.  But  the  charm,  always  present  and 
chiefly  felt,  is  that  of  a  delightful  personality, 
which  gives  a  flavor  to  his  style,  as  distinctive 
as  that  of  Lamb  or  Irving.  His  self-revela 
tions  are  the  opening  of  a  veritable  heart-Eden. 
He  is  in  all  he  has  written — a  delicious  sauce 
to  every  dish.  His  child-portraitures  seem 
more  real  than  those  of  Dickens,  his  child- 
sympathy  as  genuine.  With  the  communica 
tion  of  his  preferences,  delights,  joys,  sorrows, 
humors,  and  convictions,  you  share  his  gentle 
enthusiasms,  and  delight  as  in  the  presence  of 
the  printed  page,  and  something  more — that 
of  a  choice  companion.  He  touches  a  few 
themes  selectly,  and  invests  them  with  a  sunny 
charm,  tinged  here  and  there  with  gentle  mel 
ancholy.  With  no  exhaustion  from  the  ex 
penditure,  he  puts  the  very  juice,  marrow, 
nerve,  of  his  life  into  his  rare  sentences ;  you 
are  conscious  of  rich  reserve.  Then  he  takes 
you  into  his  confidence  in  so  upright  and  manly 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  193 

a  way,  giving  you  so  few  foibles  of  weakness 
and  vanity,  that  you  instinctively  admire  and 
respect  this  sturdy  Scotch  character  as  much 
as  you  love  his  writings.  As  for  that  bit  of 
choice  biography  he  has  given  us,  I  know  noth 
ing  of  the  kind  that  pleases  me  so  well.  The 
life  of  a  soul  is  there,  and  the  spiritual  features 
seem  distinct  as  the  physical.  Such  a  piece  of 
writing  will  hold  with  its  fascination  through 
repeated  perusal.  In  its  condensed  dimen 
sions  it  is  a  cameo ;  in  its  perfection  of  beauty, 
a  gem.  It  is  the  best  of  reading  for  a  winter 
fireside. 

IV. 

I  have  a  freehold  in  the  domain  of  the  old 
Cavalier  poets,  and  love  to  wander  back  be 
yond  the  loose  times  and  wanton  rhymes  of 
the  Second  Charles,  and  his  Sedleys,  Butlers, 
and  Rochesters,  to  a  more  stirring  season, 
wherein  the  trumpet  sounds,  and  King  and 
Commons  clash  together;  and,  perhaps,  after 
the  battle  to  pause  beneath  that  oak  which  be 
came  a  Prince's  shelter,  wherein  he  lingered — 

"Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 
And  far  beneath  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  hummed  a  surly  hymn."* 


*  Tennyson— The  Talking  Oak.  17 


194  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

There  I  find  a  Tyrtasan  warrior-music,  rous 
ing  with  strains  like  a  charge  of  horsemen 
with  leveled  lances;  a  ringing  cry  and  call  of 
honor,  breaking  love's  rosiest  chain  to  embrace 
an  embattled  brother,  affirming,  if  this  were 
not  done — 

"I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much ;"  * 

and  then  a  wraving  of  the  sword  aloft,  and  the 
shout  at  the  onset : — 

"Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 
And  hero-like  to  die."f 

There  I  find  an  expressed  nobleness,  a  chiv 
alry,  never  so  antique  as  to  be  useless:  there 
such  matchless  songs  of  love  and  compliment, 
as  Lovelace  sang  to  Althea  from  prison,  and 
Suckling,  of  her  whose 

"Feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 
As  if  they  feared  the  light." 

There  is  a  sinuous,  gliding,  and  dancing 
grace  of  verse,  like  a  child,  lithe  of  limb,  and 
golden-locked,  flinging  itself  jubilantly  in  the 
sun;  there  are  brightest  flashes  of  honest  wit, 


-Lovelace — Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars, 
t  Motherwell— The  Song  of  the  Cavalier. 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  195 

and  glancings  of  most  starry  poesy,  that  have 
their  charm  even  after  the  bracing  thought, 
severe,  the  elevation  of  style,  solemn  harmony, 
and  heroic  magnificence  of  Milton.  There 
Herbert,  Quarles,  and  Vaughan  sing  their 
sage  and  quaint  and  religious  songs,  giving 
us  some  peeping  insight  "into  that  world  of 
light,"  where  to  the  full  recognizance  of  all 
forms  immortal  the  soul  shall  "need  no  glasse." 
There  we  shall  get  from  the  Roman  Catholic 
Crashaw  some  rare,  peculiar  verse.  But  there 
was  one  who  was  the  sport  of  fortune  and  dis 
aster's  child,  but  whose  name  suggests  to  me 
fields  of  tedded  grass,  with  which  all  wild 
flowers  and  the  dead-ripe  strawberries  mingle ; 
a  most  homely-fragrant,  sweet-briery  mem 
ory — dear  old  George  Wither,  the  man  of  an 
unwithering  fame,  among  those  with  whom 
such  fame  is  of  any  consequence.  He  comes 
down  upon  the  poetry  of  his  time  like  showers 
on  the  grass,  so  fresh,  so  vivacious,  so  feast- 
ing-full  he  is.  Amid  the  changing  fortunes 
of  the  time  this  singing  Cavalier  \vas  alter 
nately  elevated  or  depressed;  according  to  the 
prevalence  of  Puritan  or  Royalist  he  had  lack 
or  abundance,  so  that  his  was  a  very  apostolic 
diversity  of  experience.  As  truest  poets  do, 


196  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

he  trod  the  winepress,  and  expressed  rich  juice 
of  bruised  hopes  and  affections.  He  was  a 
lark  at  liberty,  but  a  nightingale  caged ;  for 
when  his  artist-soul  wrought  in  the  crucible 
of  the  prison  into  which  his  foes  threw  him, 
and  where  he  dwelt  for  years,  his  golden  ara 
besques  of  rhyme  speak  of  dungeon  stones  as 
of  gems,  and  of  gloomy  cells  as  if  they  had 
been  palaces.  The  radiant,  imperial  mind  con 
jured  blank  walls  into  blazoned  pictures,  and 
converted  the  creaking  of  unoiled  hinges  and 
closing  of  iron  doors  into  joyous  music.  Shut 
in  from  the  green  fields,  the  ghosts  of  daisies 
came  to  dance  before  his  eyes,  and  the  dull 
floor  sprang  verdant  before  him.  We  must 
repeat  some  of  his  verses — rich,  if  not  the  rich 
est  offering  ever  in  such  a  place  made  at  the 
shrine  of  Poesy  : — 

"Though  confined  within  these  rocks, 
Here  I  waste  away  the  light, 
And  consume  the  sullen  night, 
She*  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 
And  keeps  my  many  cares  away. 
Though  I  miss  the  flowery  fields, 
With  those  sweets  the  spring-tide  yields. 
Though  I  may  not  see  those  groves 
Where  the  shepherds  chant  their  loves, 
And  the  lasses  more  excel 
Than  the  sweet-voiced  Philomel. 

''The  Muse. 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  197 

Though  of  all  those  pleasures  past, 

Nothing  now  remains  at  last, 

But  remembrance,  poor  relief, 

That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief : 

She 's  my  mind's  companion  still, 

Maugre  envy's  evil  will. 

(Whence  she  would  be  driven,  too, 

Were 't  in  mortal's  power  to  do.) 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 

Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow : 

Makes  the  desolatest  place 

To  her  presence  be  a  grace ; 

And  the  blackest  discontents 

Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 

In  my  former  days  of  bliss, 

Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 

That  from  everything  I  saw 

I  could  some  invention  draw, 

And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height 

Through  the  meanest  object's  sight; 

By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 

By  the  least  bough's  rustleing. 

By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread, 

Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 

Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree, 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 

Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can, 

In  some  other  wiser  man. 

By  her  help  I  also  now 

Make  this  churlish  place  allow 

Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness, 

In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 


198  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  dull  loncness,  the  black  shade. 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made; 

The  strange  music  of  the  waves 

Beating  in  these  hollow  caves; 

This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss 

Overgrown  with  eldest  moss; 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 

More  to  terror  than  delight: 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 

Walled  about  with  disrespect. 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A  fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 

I  will  cherish  thee  for  this. 

Poesy,  thou  sweet'st  content 

That  e'er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent : 

Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee, 

Whose  dull  thoughts  can  not  conceive  thee, 

Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn, 

That  to  nought  but  earth  are  born, 

Let  my  life  no  longer  be 

Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee! 

Though  our  wise  ones  call  it  madness, 

Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness, 

If  I  love  not  thy  maddest  fits 

Above  all  their  greatest  wits, 

And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy, 

Do  account  thy  raptures  folly, 

Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 

What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them." 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  199 

I  love  a  man  who  appreciates  his  Muse ; 
and  so  did  gentle  Elia.  I  marvel  not  Charles 
Lamb  found  sweetness  in  the  meat  of  Wither. 
Here  we  have  something  of  Wordsworth's 
placidity,  his  mild  philosophy,  and  all  his  sim 
plicity. 

Dear  old  Cavalier  Poet !  he  did  get  release 
from  prison,  and  fell  into  his  last  sleep  at  Lon 
don  on  the  2d  of  May,  1667. 


V. 
FROST-WORK. 

Past,  the  chill  night,  with  wannest  smile  the  morn 
Looks  forth,  white-veiled.    What  charm  from  mid 
night  drear 
Hath  now  earth  reft,  and  o'er  chaste  features 

worn  ? 

The  tardy  sun  his  cloudy  face  doth  clear : 
Behold !  what  maze  of  fairydom  is  here ! 
There  's  not  an  elm  that  springs  his  shaft  aloof 
But  gives  of  winter's  stateliest  beauty  proof! 
The  trees  as  branching  corals  all  appear ! 
I  stand  with  eye  attent,  and  wistful  ear, 
Where  Silence  lays  his  finger,  as  I  soon 
Quaint  bugles  blown  from  Elfinland  may  hear. 
But,  lo !  the  magic  scatters !  the  pure  boon 
Is  quickly  gone !     Each  tall  tree  's  powdery  crown 
Does  'mid  th'  applausive  stillness  tremble  down. 


2oo  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

VI. 

"There  was  a  roaring  in  the  woods  all  night." 

That  type  of  mystery,  whereof  He  spake 
who  made  it,  came  forth  to  smite  the  corners 
of  the  house.  What  was  that?  We  are 
startled  from  our  slumbers  by  a  crackling 
sound,  followed  by  a  sudden  rushing  sound. 
It  is  not  Pentecost,  and  there  are  no  fiery 
tongues,  and  yet  there  is  a  voice !  A  thud  and 
a  tinkle,  as  if  some  crystalline  thing  had  been 
suddenly  shattered  and  dispersed.  That  rush 
ing  is  of  snow,  dislodged  from  the  roof,  and 
of  icicles  and  crystal  splinters  swept  away. 
What  cry  is  that — what  groan !  Does  the  ear 
give  a  true  report?  I  feel  it  is  the  distress  of 
a  tree, — a  burden  that  fell  two  evenings  ago 
with  the  darkness.  How  can  the  trees  endure 
the  added  fury  of  the  wind?  I  seem  to  hear 
the  agony  of  a  dryad !  Again,  and  again,  the 
rush,  the  thud,  the  tinkling. 

At  dawn  our  valley  is  one  living  crystal ; 
but  the  hills  are  not  yet  lamps  of  tinted  splen 
dor  held  up  and  lighted  of  the  sun.  Old  High 
Head  is  a  cape  projecting  into  the  world  of 
Faerie.  Our  willows,  stout  and  aged,  show  a 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  201 

melancholy  beauty,  an  uncomfortable  magnifi 
cence.  It  was  their  report  we  heard  through 
the  night,  and  the  complaining  of  the  elms ; 
their  icy  coats  are  rent,  here  and  there,  and  the 
crusted  snow  is  darkened  around  them  by  their 
shredded  twigs  and  branches — 

"By  hoary  winter's  ravage  torn." 

The  numerous  brittle  boughs  are  tense  with 
frost ;  the  icy  burden  can  not  be  borne ;  all  day 
they  continue  to  lay  their  weighty  honors 
down. 

"Woe  doth  the  heavier  sit, 
Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne." 

So  do  the  prizes  of  this  world — more  in  show 
than  sense — become  to  us  splendid  infirmity. 
These  burdened  trees  shall  prosper  yet  the 
more :  this  may  be  a  necessary  lopping  off.  But 
surely,  with  his  keen  frost-scimitar,  the  in 
visible  forester  has  been  at  work  busily ! 

The  resilient  elms — that  noble  colonnade 
that  makes  a  vista  of  shade  toward  the  river — 
have  their  strength  and  pliancy  taxed  to  the 
utmost,  but  they  do  not  yet  surrender.  The 
furze-woods,  with  their  contrasted  decoration, 
have  a  patient,  shrouded,  shrunken,  overbur 
dened  mien.  They  stand  so  forlornly,  and  with 


2O2  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix, 

such  distinctness,  against  the  pallor  of  earth 
and  sky,  like  dispirited  men  herded  together, 
with  their  hands  thrust  in  their  pockets  !  They 
are  kings  of  the  north  crushed  under  a  weight 
of  pearls.  One  might  be  pleased  with  a  gem 
here  and  there ;  but  who  would  be  covered  with 
them,  like  Tarpeia  with  shields?  How  would 
the  woods  shine  now,  should  the  sun  let  loose 
its  radiance! 

Take  now  a  stroll  into  the  woods :  there  is 
a  lane  we  know,  that  leads  between  two  rough 
stone  walls  out  toward  an  open  pasture,  and  the 
rein  is  a  grove  of  beeches.  Let  us  go  thither, 
and  we  shall  see  what  the  poet  has  pictured ! 

"Look !  the  massy  trunks 

Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 
But  round  the  parent-stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.    O,  you  might  deem  the  spot 
The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems  grow, 
And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 
With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 
Lit  up  most  royally  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.    Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace  that  outlasts  the  night 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  203 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ; — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars.    Raise  thine  eye ; 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.    Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.    All,  all  is  light; 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks 
Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont." 


VII. 

"When  o'er  Canadian  plains 

The  frosts  of  winter  yield, 
And  on  the  snowy  firs 

The  green  's  again  revealed, — 
When  April,  child  of  change, 

Is  here  in  wanton  sway, 
The  snow-bird's  twitter  tells 

That  spring  is  on  the  way. 

Afar  from  balmier  skies, 

Afar  from  flowerier  groves, 

Where  other  winged  companions 
Hide  now  their  nests  and  loves, 


204  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

They  turn  their  dauntless  flight 

Towards  our  paler  day, 
With  word  of  the  arbutus 

And  message  of  the  May. 

When  cheery  voice  and  eye 

And  ash-gray  wing  appear, 
Now  many  a  heart  that  grieved 

Is  glad  that  they  are  here ! 
Ay,  to  how  many  a  heart 

The  doors  of  joy  they  ope! 
'T  is  God  who  sends  them  hither 

Lest  we  forget  to  hope. 

When  storm-winds  sweep 
The  bitter  deep, 
Bird  of  the  snow, 
May  God  thee  keep." 

— From  the  French  of  Frechette. 
Translated  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 

If  we  enter  our  winter  woods  we  shall  find 
them  not  altogether  silent  and  tenantless ;  at 
least,  the  stillness  of  the  quietest  day  may  be 
broken  by  well-defined  bird-tones,  and  the 
desolate  places  may  be  made  glad  by  their 
flitting  forms.  In  your  walks  you  will  be  apt 
to  meet  the  familiar  snow-bunting,  rarely 
wanting  in  his  due  season  in  the  forest  lands 
of  Maine,  or  of  Canada.  These  rollicking  little 
holiday-makers  love  the  flying  flakes  and  the 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  205 

heaped  snowdrifts,  as  the  petrel  loves  the  crest 
of  the  climbing  wave.  Our  Canadian  poets 
have  loved  this  little  darling  of  the  bleak  wil 
derness  ;  and  rarely  has  poet  described  more 
accurately  the  habitude  and  environment,  the 
atmosphere  and  motion  of  a  bird,  than  Lamp- 
man  has  described  the  snow-bunting: 

"Along  the  narrow  sandy  height 

I  watch  them  swiftly  come  and  go, 

Or  round  the  leafless  wood, 
Like  flurries  of  wind-driven  snow, 
Revolving  in  perpetual  flight, 
A  changing  multitude. 

Nearer  and  nearer  still  they  sway, 
And,  scattering  in  a  circled  sweep, 

Rush  down  without  a  sound; 
And  now  I  see  them  peer  and  peep, 
Across  yon  level  bleak  and  gray, 

Searching  the  frozen  ground, — 

Until  a  little  wind  upheaves, 

And  makes  a  sudden  rustling  there, 

And  then  they  drop  their  play, 
Fla?h  up  into  the  sunless  air, 
And  like  a  night  of  silver  leaves 

Swirl  round  and  sweep  away." 

That  last  stanza,  or,  indeed,  the  entire  lyric,  is 
almost  photographic  in  its  accuracy. 

"In  New  England  it  is  styled  the  Snow- 


206  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

flake ;  'it  comes  and  goes  with  these  beautiful 
crystallizations,  as  if  itself  one  of  them,  and 
comes  at  times  only  less  thickly.  The  Snow 
bird  is  the  harbinger  and,  sometimes,  the  fol 
lower  of  the  storm.  It  seems  to  revel,  to  live 
on  snow,  and  rejoices  in  the  northern  blast, 
uttering  overhead  with  expanded  wing  its 
merry  call,  "preete-preete!"  reserving,  as  trav 
elers  tell  us,  a  sweet,  pleasant  song  for  its  sum 
mer  haunts  in  the  far  North,  where  it  builds 
its  warm,  compact  nest  on  the  ground,  or  in 
the  fissures  of  rocks  on  the  coast  of  Green 
land.'  The  Snow-bird  is  part  and  parcel  of 
Canada.  It  typifies  the  country  just  as  much 
as  the  traditional  Beaver,  recently  abstracted 
as  an  emblem,  from  Jean  Baptiste  by  the  Scotch 
descendants  of  the  Earl  of  Sterling,  on  whose 
arms  it  figured  as  early  as  1632,  according  to 
Douglass  Brymner. 

"Thousands  of  these  hardy  migrants,  borne 
aloft  on  the  breath  of  March  storms,  come  each 
spring,  whirling  round  the  heights  of  Charles- 
burg,  or  launch  their  serried  squadrons  over 
the  breezy  uplands  of  the  lovely  isle  facing 
Quebec,  the  Isle  of  Orleans  ;  one  islander  alone 
last  spring,  to  my  knowledge,  having  snared 
more  than  one  hundred  dozen  for  the  Quebec, 
Montreal,  and  United  States  markets. 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  207 

"The  merry,  robust  'Oiseau  Blanc'  is  indeed 
the  national  bird  of  French  Canada :  It  suc 
cessfully  inspired  the  lays  of  more  than  one 
of  its  native  poets.  In  his  early  and  poetical 
youth  the  respected  historian  of  Canada,  Gar- 
neau,  found  in  the  Snow-bird  a  congenial  sub 
ject  for  an  ode,  one  of  his  best  pieces ;  and  the 
Laureate,  Frechette,  is  indebted  to  his  pindaric 
effusion,  'L'Oiseau  Blanc,'  for  a  large  portion 
of  the  laurel  crown  awarded  him  by  the 
'Forty  Immortals'  of  the  French  Academy. 

"Had  I,  like  Garneau  and  Frechette,  been 
gifted  with  a  spark  of  the  poetic  fire,  I,  too, 
might  have  been  tempted  to  immortalize  in 
song  this  dear  friend  of  my  youth.  Right  well 
can  I  recall  those,  alas !  distant,  those  en 
chanted,  early  days,  whose  winters  were  colder ! 
sunshine  brighter!  snowdrifts  higher!  than 
those  of  these  degenerate  times !  Right  well 
do  I  remember  Montmagny  (St.  Thomas,  as 
it  was  then  called)  and  its  vast  meadows,  peer 
ing  out  under  the  rays  of  a  March  sun,  swarm 
ing  with  Snow-birds,  Shore-larks,  and  occa 
sionally  some  Lapland  Longspurs,  feeding 
there  in  the  early  morning,  or  with  the  de 
scending  shadows  of  eve.  Those  far-stretch 
ing  fields,  facing  the  Manor  House  to  the 


208  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

north,  how  oft  at  sunset  have  I  not  stalked 
over  them,  bearing  home  to  my  aviary  the 
numerous  captives  found  fluttering  in  my 
horse-hair  snares,  listening  as  I  sauntered 
along  to  the  low,  continuous  warble  of  my 
feathered  friends  taking  their  evening  meal ! 

''With  what  zest  boyhood  can  recall  those 
animated,  fleecy  clouds  darting  across  whit 
ened  fields,  or  hovering  in  a  graceful  cluster 
over  distant  tree-tops,  and  defying  with  their 
glossy,  wintry  plumage  the  icy  blast  of  the 
north !  Methinks  I  can  yet  recall  on  a  bright 
April  morning  a  myriad  of  these  hardy  little 
fellows  dropping  from  the  summit  of  a  large 
elm,  a  shade-tree  in  the  pasturage,  and  light 
ing,  like  a  fall  of  snow,  on  the  meadow,  to  pick 
up  grass-seed  or  grain  forgotten  from  the 
previous  summer !  With  the  ornithologist, 
Minot,  I  am  quite  prepared  to  recognize  the 
Snowflake  as  'the  most  picturesque  of  our 
winter  birds,  which  often  enlivens  an  otherwise 
dreary  scene,  especially  when  flying,  for  they 
then  seem  almost  like  an  animated  storm.'  "* 

To  the  retention  of  its  sweetest  song  to  the 
scene  and  season  of  completest  solitude,  as  al- 


*Sir  James  M.  I,e  Moine,  "  The  Birds  of  Quebec.' 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.          209 

leged  by  the  foregoing  writer,  one  of  the  clear 
est  of  our  Canadian  singers*  alludes : 

A  SECRET  SONG. 

"O  snow-bird  !  snow-bird  ! 
Welcome  thy  note  when  maple  boughs  are  bare, 

Thy  merry  twitter,  thy  emphatic  call, 
Like  silver  trumpets  pierce  the  freezing  air 

What  time  the  crystal  flakes  begin  to  fall. 
We  know  thy  secret !     When  the  day  grows  dim, 

Far  from  the  homes  that  thou  hast  cheered  so 

long, 
Thy  chirping  changes  to  a  twilight  hymn. 

O  snow-bird,  snow-bird,  wherefore  hide  thy  song ! 

"O  snow-bird  !  snow-bird ! 
Is  it  a  song  of  sorrow  none  may  know, 

An  aching  memory?     Nay,  too  glad  the  note. 
Untouched  by  knowledge  of  our  human  woe, 

Clearly  the  crystal  flutings  fall  and  float. 
We  hear  thy  tender  ecstasy  and  cry : 

'Lend  us  thy  gladness  that  can  brave  the  chill ; 
Under  the  splendors  of  the  winter  sky, 

O  snow-bird,  snow-bird,  carol  to  us  still !'  " 

"Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side."  — Lowell. 


'  Elizabeth  G.  Roberts  McDonald. 


210  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Another  cheery  little  tenant  of  our  winter 
woods  is  the  familiar  chickadee,  who,  more 
distinctly  than  Robert  of  Lincoln,  tells  his 
name  to  all  the  hills,  and  pipes  it  through  all 
the  bare  arcades  of  the  forest.  If  you  see  the 
plump,  downy  little  fellow,  of  brisk,  pert  ways, 
with  his  black  poll  and  white  face  and  breast, 
and  yet  do  not  know  him,  just  wait  till  he 
speaks — he  will  tell  you  who  he  is!  If  he  is 
not  so  much  as  Jack  Robin  a  man-lover, 
haunting  the  places  of  human  habitation,  yet 
he  is  by  no  means  a  shy  and  fearful  bird,  and 
can  easily  be  won  by  the  friendly  and  gentle 
who  approach  his  haunts.  "Perhaps,"  says 
Bradford  Torrey,  "no  wild  bird  is  more  con 
fiding.  If  a  man  is  at  work  in  the  woods  in 
cold  weather,  and  at  luncheon  wTill  take  a  little 
pains  to  feed  the  chickadees  that  are  sure  to 
be  more  or  less  about  him,  he  will  soon  have 
them  tame  enough  to  pick  up  crumbs  at  his 
feet,  and  even  to  take  them  from  his  hands." 
And  he  assures  us  that  by  the  practice  of  scat 
tering  scraps  of  suet,  and  such  other  tidbits 
as  they  like,  they  may  be  easily  enticed  and 
lured  about  our  homes ;  where,  if  well  treated, 
they  will  become  domestic  and  familiar.  A 
tough  little  fellow  is  the  chickadee,  who  bat- 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  211 

tens  in  the  midst  of  snow  and  frost,  never  fail 
ing  of  his  daily  food,  and  fearing  neither  "win 
ter  nor  rough  weather."  He  is  no  prodigal, 
however,  and  no  absentee  from  our  clime, 
spending  the  entire  season,  and,  like  the  elder 
brother,  never  deserting  the  home  folks.  He 
can  easily  be  called  by  the  imitation  of  his 
notes,  and  will  put  in  his  appearance;  but,  as 
if  gifted  with  a  testy  sort  of  a  good  humor,  he 
will  sometimes  dart  at  his  impertinent  sum- 
moner,  with  a  laughably  indignant  little 
"de-de-de"  and  then  fly  off,  calling  his  famil 
iars  into  the  deeper  wood. 

CHICKADEE. 

On  a  spray  of  the  pine-tree, 
On  a  spray  of  the  pine-tree, 

In  this  keenest  winter  weather, 
With  thy  mate,  blithe  chickadee, 

Thou  canst  sit  and  sing  together, — 
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee ! 

Wildest  storm,  on  bitterest  day, 
Can  not  drive  our  bird  away, — 

Hardy  little  forest  ranger ! 
Here  thou  sing'st  thy  favorite  lay, 

Dreaming  not  of  harm  or  danger ; — 
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee ! 


212  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Searching  for  thy  food  the  trees, 
Hung  like  flyer  on  trapeze, 

Then,  erect  for  blithest  singing 
Thy  scant  song,  that  still  can  please, 

Through  the  wood's  cold  arcades  ringing- 
Chick-a-dce-dcc-dee ! 


VIII. 

Out  beyond  yonder  bluff  that  reaches  into 
the  stream,  where,  under  the  scales  of  its  icy 
armor,  the  serpent-river  comes  circling,  a 
murky  mist  is  hanging.  It  is  the  morning 
breath  of  the  city, — white  wreaths  of  steam, 
commingled  with  darker  volumes  of  coal- 
smoke.  Palpitant  gushes  are  belched  from  the 
factory  behind  that  most  distant  point  visible, 
rising  into  a  pallid  column  skyward.  Dark 
specks  are  moving  on  the  river ;  the  larger  are 
horses,  the  smaller  are  men.  There  the  crystal 
floor,  swept  clean,  is  being  taken  up,  and  a 
space  of  black  water  appears.  The  smooth- 
sawn  cubes  are  hoisted  up  the  steep  bank  into 
one  of  the  huge  buildings  that  loom  above  the 
Penobscot  shore  from  Orrington  to  Norom- 
bega  town.  The  harvest  of  the  fields  is 
matched  by  the  harvest  of  the  river. 

Look  upon  this  great  world-palace  of  china 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  213 

and  of  crystal !  But  this  can  not  linger.  Blos 
som  and  leaf  hasten  away,  but  this  beauty  is 
fleeter.  Yet  a  week  may  not  see  it  utterly 
vanish,  for  it  seems  substantial,  even  massy. 
It  has  seized  everything, — springs,  chutes, 
bridges,  wires,  wells,  brooks.  The  foamy  falls 
down  yonder  ravine  are  in  its  grip.  A  gray 
mist  still  hovers  and  broods  over  the  scene. 
It  is  the  face-cloth  that  shall  be  removed  to 
show  not  death,  but  life. 

IX. 

A  recent  dawn  had  with  it  some  strange 
thing  of  visionary  kind,  that  I  do  not  mind 
telling  you  of.  Night  is  the  friendly  harbor 
of  ghosts,  and  enigmas  that  need  the  after- 
presence  of  the  magician, — or,  failing  him,  of 
Joseph  or  Daniel ;  but  I  beg  you  will  not  press 
me  hard  for  my  meaning,  since  mortals  have 
christened  mine  a  day-dream, — 

"And  morning  dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true,"* 

needing  no  interpretation. 

I  saw  a  wide  pasture  skirted  by  the  wilder 
ness,  with  barren  mountains  stretching  beyond, 
having  spikes  of  dead  trees  upon  them,  and 

*Michael  Bruce. 


214  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

deep  rifts,  with  gloomy  pitfalls  between.  The 
plain  was  dimming  in  the  eventide,  but  I  saw 
there  was  little  flowering  or  greenness,  only 
russet  stubble,  with  richer-looking  hilltops 
here  and  there.  Scattered  over  this  wide  field, 
and  strayed  into  the  adjacent  wilderness,  was 
a  great  flock  of  creatures  having  the  bodies  of 
sheep,  with  human  visages,  of  which  there  was 
great  variety,  as  to  youth  and  age,  beauty  and 
deformity.  In  the  center  of  the  pasture,  where 
they  huddled  together  in  the  greatest  number, 
as  waiting  for  the  folding,  I  saw  one  solitary 
man,  whom  I  supposed  to  be  the  shepherd. 
He  was  clad  in  black,  smoothly  kept,  and  his 
ruddy  head  was  smooth-shaven.  I  wondered 
to  see  him  seated  beside  a  wheelbarrow  laden 
with  faded  manuscripts,  one  of  which  he  held 
in  his  hand,  while  others  were  scattered  all 
around  the  stone  on  which  he  sat.  He  seemed 
engrossed  in  perusing,  or  absorbed  in  his  own 
thinking,  except  that  now  and  again  he  lifted 
his  face,  with  an  air  of  furtive  jealousy,  and 
his  keen  eyes  swept  the  outskirts  of  the  field, — 
not  indeed  to  see  whether  any  of  his  flock 
strayed  into  the  wilderness,  which  they  contin 
ually  did, — but  to  guard  against  the  sudden  ap 
pearance  of  some  rival  shepherd.  While  he 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  215 

sat  there,  a  tempest  broke  loose  among  the 
mountains,  and  crashing  through  the  wilder 
ness  upon  the  plain,  drove  the  sheep  this  way 
and  that  in  great  confusion.  The  lightnings 
flashed  upon  each  other,  as  swords  that  are 
crossed  in  combat ;  the  winds  were  maddened, 
and  the  thunders,  like  wild  beasts,  roared  at 
one  another ;  while  the  sea,  not  far  away,  lifted 
its  angry  voice  all  along  the  shore.  Exposed, 
the  flock  were  shrinking  vainly  from  its  fury ; 
but  the  shepherd  covered  his  papers  and  him 
self  with  a  penthouse,  wrhich  he  suddenly  up 
lifted,  and  he  counted  the  storm  a  luxury.  By 
and  by  it  was  over,  and  the  moon  shone  over 
their  dripping  fleeces ;  when  down  the  moun 
tain  sides,  leading  over  the  barren  backs  of 
stone  the  half-perished  wanderers,  came  an 
other  shepherd,  bearing  the  helpless  ones  in 
his  bosom,  and  gathering  a  little  flock  for  lov 
ing  ministry.  As  soon  as  he  appeared  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  wilderness,  or  touched  the  field 
wherein  the  solitary  shepherd  sat,  he  leaped 
from  his  seat  and  commenced  herding  his  flock 
with  great  diligence,  running  out  to  the  bor 
ders  of  the  plain  and  seeking  to  bring  them 
into  the  center.  "Wait,"  said  the  new  shep 
herd  ;  "these  be  my  sheep  whom  ye  are  driving 


2i6  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

in ;  give  me  chance  to  collect  mine  own."  Yet 
he  paid  no  heed,  but  with  greater  flourish 
swept  round  the  field,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
drive  his  associate  out.  "What  signifies  a  few 
poor  sheep,"  he  cries,  "whether  they  be  yours 
or  mine?  Do  we  not  work  both  to  the  same 
end  ?  I  bid  you  God-speed !"  So  he  swept 
the  new  shepherd's  lambs  into  his  woolly  mul 
titude,  and  went  on  herding  them  as  before. 
Just  then  there  strayed  up  to  me  an  idle  comer, 
of  whose  cold,  curled  lip  I  inquired  why  this 
strange  shepherd  had  come  upon  the  other's 
ground.  "Would,"  he  said,  "he  had  come 
sooner.  Every  day  this  man  has  tarried  in  this 
place,  and  the  wilderness  has  not  known  him. 
As  for  the  strayed  of  the  flock,  he  has  not  so 
much  as  cared  for  their  fleeces,  though  every 
day  more  and  more  of  them  have  tumbled  over 
the  rocks,  or  got  fouled  with  mud  and  briers." 
As  I  walked  near  the  penthouse  I  saw  that 
some  one  had  written  thereon:  "Tnis  is  THE 
GUARDIAN  OF  SHIBBOLETH/'  Then,  to  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet  and  the  accents  of  a  mighty 
voice,  with  words  I  could  not  distinguish,  I 
started,  and  awoke. 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  217 

X. 

A  ride  by  moonlight !  Surely  this  is  a 
region  where  all  the  creatures  of  poetry  are 
naturalized  and  have  immemorially  dwelt. 
My  steed  seems  spirit  only;  never  did  sledge 
or  sleigh  have  lighter,  easier  motion ;  never 
bells  a  more  fairy-sweetness  in  their  jingle. 
Tens  of  thousands  they  are — these  silver  fire 
flies  that  seem  to  cluster  and  glance  amid  the 
crystalline  branches.  The  landscape  is  etched 
on  ivory.  Nay,  it  has  the  New  Jerusalem 
whiteness !  Those  maiden-birches  are  Beauty 
in  desolation — white  nuns,  everywhere  bowing 
in  agony  of  prayer.  All  around  me  the  trees 
lean,  as  if  wearily,  and  some  seem  falling  with 
arms  outstretched,  like  men  pierced  with  bul 
lets.  Some  are  curled  and  doubled  under  their 
white  woe,  as  if  they  shrank  and  cowered  in 
mortal  terror.  Here  are  the  Laocoons  of  the 
forest.  The  same  abounding  nature,  that  ex 
presses  the  serenity  of  beauty,  gives  here  a 
beautiful  awe,  and  speaks  the  passion  of  dis 
may. 

Mount  Hope  or  High  Head  may  now  sat 
isfy  the  outward  eye,  but  the  inner  eye  has 
visions  beside.  Fancy  builds  and  storms  her 


2i8  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ice-palaces  on  Mount  Royal,  or  goes  in  a  snow- 
shoe  procession  to  the  gates  of  Ville  Marie  by 
wooded  paths  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  We  dream 
of  winter  glories,  like  Niagara  and  Mont- 
morency,  of  icicle-beaded  woods  and  moun 
tains  of  Laurentia,  beyond  the  frown  of  the 
Saguenay,  where  bleak  kings  of  the  forest 
stand  in  melancholy  grandeur,  and  glassy 
scalps  hold  up  a  mirror  to  the  moon.  We  wan 
der  in  fancy  along  the  shores  of  Huron  or 
Superior,  and  hear  the  grinding  of  the  tide 
as  it  lifts  the  huge  floes,  and  see  the  glimmer 
of  the  ice-scales  on  the  rocks. 

XL 

The  sun  breaks  forth  upon  the  scene,  and 
makes  all  beauty  manifest.  Welcome,  Great 
Revealer!  The  dazzled  world  repeats  thy 
glory !  Before,  the  loveliness  below  was  sub 
dued ;  now  it  is  glorious — jubilant!  We  see 
God  now !  It  is  no  legend :  "He  causeth  the 
vapors  to  ascend.  He  giveth  snow  like  wool ; 
he  scattereth  the  hoar  frost  like  ashes.  He 
casteth  forth  his  ice  like  morsels."  Yes,  and 
now  he  kindles  every  particle !  Over  all  rides 
the  triumphant  sun ! 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  219 

"A  splendor  brooking  no  delay 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 

I  leave  the  trodden  village  highway 

For  virgin  snow-paths  glimmering  through 
A  jeweled  elm-tree  avenue; 

Where  keen  against  the  walls  of  sapphire, 
The  gleaming  tree-bolls,  ice-embossed, 
Hold  up  their  chandeliers  of  frost. 

What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 
Is  this  wild  work  of  frost  and  light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite ! 

This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City, 
Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 
The  white  Bride  coming  down  from  Heaven!" 

O  for  a  perch  to-day,  on  Kineo  or  Katahdin, 
and  a  moment  to  stand  at  gaze ! 

We  open  our  New  Testament  at  the  page 
that  looks  out  from  a  "mountain  apart,"  and 
read  for  our  devotions :  "He  was  transfigured 
before  them.  And  his  raiment  became  shin 
ing,  exceeding  white  as  snow ;  so  as  no  fuller 
on  earth  can  white  them." 

Now,  if  anything  but  clean  light  came  out 
of  the  sky,  it  seems  as  if  it  might  be  a  snow 
of  fire. 


22O  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Lowell,  in  his  "Good  Word  for  Winter," 
paints  the  frosty  and  the  snowy  phase ;  he  can 
not  do  justice  to  this  mingling  of  ice  and  fire : 
"What  a  cunning  silversmith  is  Frost !  The 
rarest  workmanship  of  Delhi  or  Genoa  copies 
him  but  clumsily.  .  .  .  Fernwork  and  lace- 
work  and  filagree  in  endless  variety,  and  under 
it  all  the  water  tinkles  like  a  distant  guitar, 
or  drums  like  a  tambourine,  or  gurgles  like 
the  Tokay  of  an  anchorite's  dream.  Beyond 
doubt  there  is  a  fairy  procession  marching 
along  those  frail  arcades  and  translucent  cor 
ridors." 

But  we  return  to  the  visions  of  the  seer  of 
Amesbury,  and  the  earlier  seer: 

"This   foregleam  of  the  Holy  City." 

What  was  that  the  poet  of  Patmos  saw — the 
astonishment  come  down  from  God  out  of 
heaven,  adorned  as  a  bride  for  her  husband? 
Surely  this  easy  miracle  might  vie  with  that 
in  its  dazzling  purity !  But  that — ah !  that  was 
Permanence.  John  saw  the  things  that  shall 
remain.  But  this  is  Evanescence; — yet,  not 
altogether  so ;  for,  though  these  forms  shall 
perish,  the  ever-appearing,  shadowy,  change- 


Winter  on  the  Penobscot.  221 

able  Beauty  shall  abide  within  the  renewing 
body,  and  be  here  forever.    Then — 

"Let  the  strange  frost-work  sink  and  crumble, 
And  let  the  loosened  tree-boughs  'swing, 
Till  all  their  bells  of  silver  ring." 

Shine,  thou  sun !  blow,  thou  south  wind ! 

"Breathe  through  a  veil  of  tenderest  haze 
The  prophecy  of  summer  days. 

Come  with  thy  green  relief  of  promise, 
And  to  this  dead,  cold  splendor  bring 
The  living  jewels  of  the  spring!" 

Amen  !     So  say  we  all ! 


Doctor  at 


"Is  any  sick?  the  man  of  Ross  relieves, 
Prescribes,  attends,  the  medicine  makes  and  gives." 
—  Pope,  "Moral  Essays." 

THE  school  is  out  for  recess  !  Or  perhaps 
it  is  the  noon-hour  that  has  come  ;  for  the  boys 
are  pouring  out  of  the  school-room,  with  the 
gurgling  glee  of  water  out  of  a  bottle.  Why 
could  they  not  in  that  day  come  out  with  a 
stately,  regular  march,  as  they  do  nowadays, 
and  to  appropriate  music;  not  as  "bees  bizz 
out,"  or  as  swallows  come  from  under  the 
eaves  of  a  barn?  Well  now,  my  dear  (it  is 
you,  reader,  I  refer  to),  you  discover  your 
unsophisticated  nature.  We  did  not  have  the 
telephone  and  the  modern  drill  in  King  Ca 
nute's  time;  while,  as  for  a  grand  piano,  it 
could  not  have  been  got  in  at  the  door  of  our 
old  school-house,  and  would  have  filled  up  the 
room  when  it  was  in.  Then,  at  the  same  time, 
why  should  not  "boys  be  boys"  while  they  have 
wit  enough? 

222 


Our  Doctor.  223 

But,  to  return  from  our  digression,  we 
said  the  boys  are  coming  out,  and  the  girls, 
also — and  plenty  of  noise  they  are  making,  you 
may  be  sure.  If  you  ever  read  Hood's  poem 
of  Eugene  Aram, — why,  you  know  all ;  for  he 
tells  you  in  brief  measure  just  how  it  was 
done : — 

"There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that  leapt, 
Like  troutlets  in  a  pool." 

I  said  they,  did  I  ?  That  shows  me  to  have 
ceased  from  being  a  boy,  and  to  have  become  a 
proper  old  fogy; — though  it  may  be  the  time 
for  that,  as  my  hair  is  thinning  out.  I  should 
have  said  we — for  /  was  surely  among  them. 
O  school-fellows !  it  was  we — it  was  our  very 
selves  who  rushed  out  at  that  corner  door,  just 
opened,  and  flung  our  arms  abroad  and  tossed 
our  caps  in  the  air — just  as  it  is  done  now  once 
a  year  on  Dominion-day,  but  just  as  we  did  it 
every  day  then — with  a  whoop  and  a  whoop-la! 
before  we  proceeded 

"To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed 
Or  urge  the  flying  ball." 

And,  I  declare  to  you,  school-fellows,  if  I  could 
take  a  week's  vacation  into  boyhood,  I  would 
without  scruple  do  the  same  thing  over  again ; 


224  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

after  which,  as  I  am  assured,  I  should  return 
to  my  staid  and  proper  personality  much  re 
freshed. 

Hark !  there  is  a  rattle  of  wheels  along  by 
the  roadside  apple-trees  yonder — those  crooked 
old  patriarchs  that  stoop  over  the  fence  from 
the  Crowell  Farm.  Their  gnarled  and  shagged 
branches  gave  us  an  umbrageous  shelter  on 
hot  days,  and  dropped  part  of  their  fruit  where 
it  was  most  convenient  for  us.  Boys  are  so 
indolent  they  decline  to  climb  a  fence,  unless 
there  is  need  for  it ;  but  when  the  need  is  great, 
and  the  high-top  sweeting  is  in  the  middle  of 
the  orchard  and  will  not  come  to  them,  they 
will  sometimes  strain  a  point ;  that  is,  the  boys 
I  had  to  go  with  would,  and  I  am  not  an 
swerable  for  the  superior  virtue  of  these  times. 
But  the  apples  that  fell  from  the  Crowell  trees 
— O  my !  you  would  n't  eat  them  now  ! — but 
nowr  you  haven't  the  teeth.  We  were  glad 
then  to  pick  up  the  crabbedest  knurlins,  and 
to  pelt  the  branches  for  more. 

But  I  was  saying  something  about  "a  rat 
tling  of  wheels,"  when,  of  course,  I  interrupted 
myself  with  a  digression — a  minister's  and  a 
pedagogue's  unfailing  habit.  And  wheels  had 
cause  for  rattling  on  our  roads,  since  in  a 


Our  Doctor.  225 

country  village  I  never  knew  them  better  or 
harder.  When,  in  my  later  peregrinations,  I 
have  had  too  much  occasion  to  travel  over  a 
country  where  the  new  road  was  a  good  many 
inches  below  the  old  one,  I  have  wished  for 
a  few  cartloads  of  our  blue  Acadian  gravel 
and  the  diligent  hand  of  the  macadamizer. 

"Hullo!  here  comes  the  doctor!"  (The 
wheels  might  have  rattled  out  of  sight  while 
I  am  getting  to  my  story.)  It  is  the  general 
cry;  and  then  all  the  boys  and  girls  set  off  to 
meet  the  advancing  carriage  as  soon  as  it  is  in 

sight.     It  is  Dr.  B n,  of  Grand-Pre,  our 

village  ^Esculapius,  and  a  venerable  favorite 
among  boys  and  girls.  He  is  a  standing  re 
buke  to  all  disease  that,  where  it  is  possible  to 
disengage  itself,  spreads  its  melancholy  vans 
immediately  on  his  arrival.  There  he  is !  with 
his  full,  rubicund  countenance,  and  his  wig  of 
brown  hair ;  and  not  a  boy  is  afraid  of  him  in 
all  the  country  round.  A  "noticeable  man"  is 
he;  though  his  eyes  are  not  "gray,"  but  blue, 
and  not  "large,"  but  of  the  medium  size,  and 
he  has  a  face  and  figure  to  command  attention 
— at  the  hustings  and  in  the  legislative  hall — 
as  well  as  in  the  invalid's  chamber.  I  know 
not  how  many  terms  he  has  served  his  native 
15 


226  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

county  in  the  Provincial  House  of  Assembly. 
I  assure  you,  reader,  he  is  a  man  of  parts,  and 
of  much  consideration.  He  wins  many  a 
salute  and  many  a  nod  and  smile  as  he  passes 
along,  sitting  stoutly  erect  in  his  buggy.  But 
what  at  this  point  I  would  chiefly  impress 
upon  the  stolid  and  impenetrable  especially, 
is  that  when  among  the  "young  folks"  he  is 
the  rollicking  incarnation  of  humorous  good 
nature  ;  and  though  his  place  by  right  of  years 
may  be  among  the  elders, — and  he  can  figure 
there  and  acquit  himself  with  some  credit, — 
yet  wanting  their  tameness  and  gravity,  he  is  as 
likely  as  not  to  be  classed  with  the  boys — being 
a  dear  friend  of  the  lovers  of  hopscotch,  leap 
frog,  and  of  bat  and  ball. 

Under  his  seventy  winters  he  stands  (or  sits, 
as  I  have  not  yet  got  him  out  of  his  carriage) 
in  his  brown  wig,  aforementioned,  without  a 
visible  sprinkle  of  frost — or,  for  that  matter, 
one  flake  of  the  snow  that  Boreal  Age  com 
monly  sifts  upon  us  before  our  threescore  years 
are  told.  Something  was  infused  into  his 
happy  composition  that  made  nugatory  the  de 
cree  of  Time,  so  far  as  his  appearance  is  con 
cerned.  He  has  stood  in  his  time  among  other 
than  mean  men ;  but  among  boys  he  will  assert 


Our  Doctor.  227 

his  former  boyhood  and  maintain  a  perpetual 
youth.  And  well  he  may  do  this,  for  now  at 
this  very  moment  under  the  aforesaid  wig 
shines  his  face  like  a  ruddy  apple — not  one  of 
the  Crowell  knurlins — a  veritable  sun  of  good 
humor,  whence  little  rays  of  cheerfulness  come 
streaming  wherever  he  goes.  Tennyson  de 
scribes  the  "busy  wrinkles"  round  the  eyes  of 
his  miller :  they  were  round  our  doctor's  eyes. 
Are  they  not  round  the  eyes  of  every  practical, 
sagacious,  good-natured  man,  of  sufficient 
breadth  of  countenance,  who  has  in  him  the 
spice  of  humor?  The  wrinkles  around  our 
doctor's  eyes  were  "busy"  and  merry;  and  as 
for  his  ruddy  cheeks,  he  got  them,  he  tells  me, 
on  the  farm  of  his  father  before  he  was  eight 
een  years  old,  and  that  too  by  feeding  on 
wheat  bread,  with  plenty  of  new  milk,  avoid 
ing  condiments  and  carnivorous  foods.  So  it 
happens  that  he  is  a  heart  of  oak.  Let  him  but 
alight,  and,  like  the  farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale, 
face  and  figure  will  be  a  pleasant  medicine  to 
the  eye : 

"Erect  as  a  sunflower  he  stands,  and  the  streak 
Of  the  unfaded  rose  still  enlivens  his  cheek. 
'Mid  the  dews,  in  the  sunshine  of  morn, — 'mid  the 

joy 
Of  the  fields,  he  collected  that  bloom  when  a  boy; 


228  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

There  fashion'd  that  countenance,  which,  in  spite  of 

a  stain 

That  his  life  hath  received,  to  the  last  will  remain. 
A  farmer  he  was ;  and  his  house  far  and  near 
Was  the  boast  of  the  country  for  excellent  cheer." 

Yes,  and  you  should  hear  him  talk  about  that 
farm-life!  Whereupon  you  would  conclude 
there  was  one  mode  only  for  a  scholar  and  a 
gentleman ;  and  that  the  man  who  can  not  be 
happy  in  that  vicinage  and  vocation  lacks  in 
himself  something  essential  to  happiness.  His 
lusty  youth  was  not  only  nourished  on  fresh 
milk  and  brown-bread,  but  on  a  continuous 
diet  of  wholesome  labor,  with  scents  and  sights 
of  barn  and  byre  and  clover  fields  and  breaths 
of  spring  mornings  and  crisp  November  airs. 
Farmer  he  still  is,  as  well  as  doctor  and  man 
of  affairs ;  farmer  he  will  be  to  the  end,  bloom 
ing  brightly  to  the  close,  and  wearing  like  an 
everlasting  flower. 

But  I  shall  give  you  the  impression  that 
our  doctor  is  not  a  rapid  driver,  we  are  so 
long  in  getting  him  out  of  sight.  Very  erro 
neous  such  a  conception  of  him  would  be ;  for 
he  is  not  inclined  to  creep  upon  the  road — nor 
anywhere  else,  and  has  the  veritable  genius 
for  "getting  there."  But  the  boys  are  just 


Our  Doctor.  229 

now  ready  to  intercept  him,  though  he  should 
attempt  the  part  of  a  Jehu.  As  he  comes  clat 
tering  up  by  the  schoolhouse,  followed  by  his 
youthful  bodyguard  in  laughing  commotion, 
he  shakes — a  very  mirthful  jelly,  while  that 
rubicund  face  flushes  ruddier.  He  knows 
them,  every  one,  from  the  hour  they  were  de 
livered  into  the  hands  of  the  nurse ;  he  has 
doctored  the  people  of  the  village  for  many  a 
year,  and  brought  their  successive  tribes 
through  the  whooping  cough  and  measles ;  so 
— being  a  bachelor,  though  I  had  not  hereto 
fore  mentioned  that  fact — he  claims  a  certain 
proprietary  right  in  the  whole  of  them — or,  I 
should  have  said,  the  whole  of  us!  As  we 
crowd  around  him,  he  leans  over  in  his  mirth, 
and  shakes  his  whip  at  us  on  either  side — and 
even  behind — and  cries  out,  amid  laughter, 
"O  you  whippersnappers!  you  whippersnap- 
pers!  Get  on  here  if  you  can!"  Then  he  starts 
up  his  horse,  and  the  children  stream  after  him 
in  full  cry ;  so  he  slackens  up  directly,  and  as 
his  pace  comes  to  a  walk,  leans  over  to  banter 
them.  In  they  climb,  over  the  back  or  in  any 
way  they  can,  till  the  buggy  is  full,  and  they 
hang  on  behind,  while  he  is  happy.  Why  did 
he  never  have  wife  and  children,  while  so 


230  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

many,  of  soured  or  shriveled  social  and  domes 
tic  nature,  are  scowling  on  both?  "Here,  you 
rogues !  what  are  you  doing  ?"  he  exclaims,  as 
a  copy  of  "Felix  Holt,  the  Radical,"  that  has 
been  lying  open  on  the  seat,  is  thrust  to  the 
ground  by  their  shuffling  feet,  and  a  wheel 
passes  over  it.  It  is  restored;  and,  as  he  is 
already  overloaded,  he  starts  up  again  at  a 
good  pace,  the  rest  running  still  behind,  while 
again  he  leans  laughingly  to  snap  his  whip 
at  the  stragglers,  slowly  lagging  at  last  and 
unable  to  hold  on.  "Get  away!  Get  away!" 
he  exclaims,  in  a  new  ebullition  of  spirits — 
buoyant  as  a  cork  on  the  swell  of  a  wave: 
"Get  away!  the  old  mare  has  had  enough  of 
you!"  The  little  fellow  with  the  straw  hat, 
ragged  and  rimless,  is  helped  to  the  seat  beside 
him;  and  the  little  miss — a  pert  pet — is  taken 
on  his  knee  to  be  kissed,  and  to  have  him  pull 
her  ringlets,  and  talk  sweet,  amusing  nonsense 
to  her.  So  I  see  him  ride  on  through  the  vil 
lage,  and  down  the  descending  road,  dropping 
his  passengers  here  and  there,  till  he  arrives 
where,  from  the  green  hillside,  you  may  notice 
how  Hantsport  gleams  whitely  at  the  feet  of 
her  oaks  by  the  Avon's  margin,  and  how  the 
bending  river  sparkles  in  the  sun. 

Dear  old  bachelor-doctor !     You  have  gone 


Our  Doctor.  231 

out  of  our  sight  now — out  of  all  men's  sight, 
and  we  may  speak  of  you;  yet  with  no  ill  in 
tent.  Your  memory  lives  with  us  in  a  halo 
of  benevolence,  and  if  we  had  not  liked  you — 
virtues  and  faults  notwithstanding — you  had 
not  figured  on  this  page.  Dear  old  bachelor- 
doctor  !  You  are  among  the  unforgetables ! 
When  shall  we  hear  again  that  glorious  laugh 
of  yours — or  one  like  it?  that  matchless  stut 
ter,  in  which  you  excelled  Charles  Lamb !  By 
the  way,  was  it  not  you  who  first  told  me  that 
story  about  Lamb's  vain  endeavor  to  tell  the 
manipulator  at  the  bath  how  many  times  he 
should  be  dipped?  There  was  laughter  when 
you  did  it ;  where  you  were  and  one  other  there 
was  often  reason  for  laughter.  Many  a  time 
I  've  heard  you  quote  the  lines  of  Goldsmith 
about  the  schoolmaster's  jokes  and  the  "coun 
terfeited  glee"  of  the  children ;  but  our  "glee" 
was  not  "counterfeited"  when  you  uttered  your 
bon  mots.  What  if  the  jokes  were  sometimes 
retorted,  you  were  always  ready  when  occasion 
came  round  again.* 


*  "  Ye  '11  find  no  change  in  me,"  he  had  said,  humorously, 
to  one  who  applied  to  him,  as  road  commissioner,  for  "  a  little 
change"  to  repair  a  bridge.  "Faith,  Doctor,"  was  the  reply, 
"  ye  're  often  changin'  yer  coat  since  I  knew  ye." 

"Are  you  going  to  vote  for  me?"  he  asked  an  inconse 
quential  colored  man,  just  before  election,  merely  to  hoax 
him.  "No,  Doctah,  I  don'  vote  fer  no  one;  I  jes'  Stan's 
mutual." 


232  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Where  is  that  face  which  shines,  even  as 
Katrine's  morning  mirror,*  but  sometimes  it 
bears  the  shadow  of  a  cloud?  And  so  have 
I  seen,  even  upon  your  face,  and  when  you 
deemed  them  unobserved,  looks  sadly  serious 
enough.  On  the  day  of  an  amputation,  when 
the  boy  with  whom  you  had  sported,  and  who 
had  ridden  with  you  on  lonely  roads  in  many 
a  gloaming  hour,  must  come  under  your  sur 
gical  hand,  the  knife  you  wielded  seemed  to 
enter  your  own  heart.  When  the  mother  en 
tered,  and  saw  her  child  lie  pale  and  bleeding, 
with  eyes  closed  as  one  dead,  the  paleness  was 
on  your  face  also,  and  your  eyes  were  wet.  I 
hear  you  say  to  her:  "Some  people  accuse  the 
doctors  of  being  hard-hearted.  It  is  not  so — 
it  is  not  so !  They  must  master  their  emotion, 
they  must  put  it  into  their  hard  work."  No, 
you  could  not  cut  brother-flesh,  nor  stand 
beside  a  dying  neighbor,  without  emotion. 
Prompt,  executive,  when  anything  must  be 
done ;  a  man  of  affairs,  dealing  closely  with 


*"Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue, 

Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confess'd 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast." 

—Scott. 


Our  Doctor.  233 

such  as  closely  deal ;  not  always  and  altogether 
without  reproach  and  the  hint  of  spotted  gar 
ments  ;  yet  you  were  warm,  friendly,  compan 
ionable — yes,  and  generous,  too.  I  owe  to  you 
something  of  my  passion  for  letters ;  and  you 
were  a  free  lender  of  books — for  which  I  have 
often  had  reason  to  thank  you.  But  were  you 
not  swayed  overmuch  by  your  partialities?  as 
witness  a  dialogue  like  the  following: 

/. — Have  you  a  copy  of  Shelley's  poems  in 
your  library? 

You. — I  believe  I  have  (I  know  you  had, 
for  I  have  found  it  there)  a  copy  of  Shelley. 
But  what  of  that?  You  do  not  want  Shelley. 

/. — I  have  seen  some  of  his  shorter  poems, 
and  like  them.  I  think  him  one  of  the  most 
inspired  of  poets. 

You. — Inspired!  (Suppress  that  contempt, 
doctor!)  What  are  inspired  poets ?  There  are 
none  such.  That  is  nonsense !  Poets,  like 
other  writers,  express  their  own  ideas  in  their 
own  way. 

/. — Well,  my  way.  I  would  like  to  see  the 
book. 

You. — Such  books  are  not  wholesome  for 
young  minds.  Shelley  is  mist  and  moonshine. 
Some  men  have  their  feet  on  the  earth  and 


234  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

their  head  in  the  clouds ;  but  Shelley  was  in 
the  clouds  bodily.  You  could  not  understand 
him ;  nobody  understands  him.  I  will  not 
bring  you  Shelley. 

And  you  did  not ;  but  you  brought  me  many 
a  human  and  humorous  tome;  and  as  a  sop — 
an  atonement  for  denial — you  brought  me  a 
"Hudibras,"  with  my  name  written  on  the 
title-page. 

Dear  old  bachelor-doctor!  my  companion, 
friend,  and  comfortable  physician  in  many  an 
hour  that  delighted  or  tried  my  soul !  My 
host  and  mentor — often  my  charioteer — in  sun- 
bright  days  and  moonlit  evenings,  when  rapt 
with  nature  and  the  muse.  Had  I  the  pen  of 
genius  I  would  make  you  immortal ;  you 
should  shine  with  the  gifted  Galens  of  the 
past,  as  worthy  of  them.  I  care  not  now  that 
you  were  too  often  skeptical  in  supersensuous 
matters;  you  had  a  firm  grip  of  mundane 
realities,  like  old  Montaigne,  and  a  hearty 
relish  for  earth's  joys.  I  have  seen  men  more 
noble,  more  gifted,  more  admirable ;  but  the 
memory  that  is  earliest  and  tenderest  leads 
back  to  you.  I,  at  least,  have  not  forgotten 
you ;  and  to  me  your  rosy  face  seems  now  as 
real  and  present  to  my  imagination,  as  if  I  had 


Our  Doctor.  235 

seen  it  but  yesterday.  I  have  a  portrait  of 
Halleck,  upon  which  I  love  to  look ;  for,  besides 
its  own  openness  and  nobleness,  there  is  some 
thing  there  that  recalls  you.  Whatever  your 
faults — and  I  am  not  to  disclose  them — you 
loved  children,  and  the  dumb  and  helpless 
creatures  of  the  earth  found  in  you  an  ever 
considerate  friend.  With  you  dwelt  the  old 
humanities;  the  flavor  of  by-gone  precious 
books  was  in  your  thought  and  speech,  and  to 
you  "the  poetry  of  earth  was  never  dead,"  nor 
the  muse's  tongue  silent.  In  my  breast  you 
abide  tenderly,  for  you  helped  to  awaken  in 
me  the  half-slumbering  desire  of  song,  and 
you  showed  me  where  many  a  poetic  treasure 
lay  hidden.  How  you  exulted  in  Poet  Butler, 
and  Poet  Burns !  How,  as  the  carriage  rattled 
over  the  summer  roads,  by  the  hour  would  you 
recite  to  me  the  choice  passages  with  which 
your  memory  was  well  stored !  How  you  ex 
alted  the  masters,  and  alternately  petted  and 
scouted  the  poetlings !  And  when  I  recounted 
my  childish  gains  and  hopes,  and  poured  my 
schoolboy  aspirations  and  ambitions,  or  per 
haps  my  fears  and  sorrows,  into  your  ear,  you 
encouraged,  praised,  or  soothed  me — chiding, 
if  need  of  chiding  arose — yet  always  tenderly 


236  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

judicious.  You  entertained  me  with  the  quaint 
essence  of  pedagogic  lore.  Through  you  I 
learned  to  know  and  to  love  Goldsmith.  The 
picture,  hung  in  the  parlor  of  your  home,  of 
the  old  Irish  schoolmaster,  with  his  severe, 
frowning  face,  and  the  upraised  switch,  which 
is  soon  to  come  down  on  Phelim's  rueful  pate, 
— and  your  familiar  recitation  of — 

"Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face, — " 

are  they  not  among  the  choicest  of  memory's 
treasures!  Where  shall  I  find  in  modern  elo 
cution  the  gusto,  the  fine  eclat,  and  magnificent 
abandon  with  which  you  endowed  the  match 
less,  immortal  lines  of  "Tarn  O'  Shanter,"  as 
we  rode  at  evening  in  sweet  solitude  together 
by  the  red  winding  banks  between  which  the 
little  Gaspereau  debouches  into  Minas,  and  by 
the  marshes  of  Avonport,  making  the  old  cov 
ered  bridge  ring  again,  as  you  flourished  your 
whip  and  shouted, — 

"Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  of  life  victorious !" 

Then,  when  I  suggested  that  this  was  almost 
equal  to  Byron,  you  would  most  emphatically 


Our  Doctor.  237 

declare  that  Byron  never  saw  the  day  when 
he  could  have  written  such  a  piece. 

But  you  were  never  happier  than  when  the 
strain  turned  on  your  old  literary  idol,  "Hudi- 
bras!"  How  suddenly  would  you  break  out 
with, — 

"When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out,  they  knew  not  why ; 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folk  together  by  the  ears, 
And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk, 
For  Dame  Religion,  as  for  punk; 
Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for, 
Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore ; 
When  Gospel  Trumpeter,  surrounded 
With  long-eared  rout,  to  battle  sounded, 
Aud  pulpit  drum  ecclesiastic 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling, 
And  out  he  rode  a  coloneling." 

By  the  time  you  had  reached  the  last  line,  you 
were  ready  to  break  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  with  what  gesticulations  and  wild  peals 
of  mirth  would  you  affirm,  "O !  but  that  But 
ler  was  a  great  fellow !"  *  It  matters  not  that 
the  satirist  is  lessened  in  my  esteem,  and  my 
sympathies  are  with  the  Puritan  people  whom 


238  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

he  lampooned;  I  must  still  enjoy  the  memory 
of  your  deep  appreciation. 

Then  how  you  could  recite  "Willie  brewed  a 
peck  o'  maitt"  or  other  of  the  bacchanal,  rol 
licking,  social,  tipsy  strains  of  your  favorite 
Burns.  And  again  I  hear  you  compliment 
Tom  Moore,  and  depreciate  him,  almost  in  the 
same  breath.  You  were  often  heard  hum 
ming  his  Irish  Melodies,  and  sometimes  you 
would  sing  them  outright.  I  hear  you  now: 

"Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I  'm  at  rest ; 
Never,  O,  never  its  balm  bestowing 

On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blest. 
But  when  some  warm,  devoted  lover 

To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 
Then,  then  around  my  spirit  shall  hover 

And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him !" 

As  soon  as  you  were  done  singing  you  would 
turn  to  me,  saying,  in  a  tone  of  mock  disgust : 
"There,  is  n't  that  pretty  nonsense !  One  likes 
to  hum  it  over  well  enough ;  but  it  is  all  sound 
— sound,  and  not  a  rational  idea  in  it !"  Then 
what  laughable  stories  would  you  tell  of  the 
profession — of  old  Dr.  Abernethy,  and  his 
rough  ways;  and  of  the  practitioner  at  ran- 


Our  Doctor.  239 

dom,   who  left  behind  him  this  sly  bit  for 
epitaph : 

"When  folks  are  sick  they  send  for  I ; 
I  physics,  bleeds,  and  sweats  'em: 
Sometimes  they  live,  sometimes  they  die;— 
What's  that  to  I?— 

I  Letsome." 

Ah!  what  glorious  stuttering  and  laughter! 
Did  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esq.,  ever  have  better 
times  with  his  friends,  or  more  entirely  for 
the  time  being  forget  or  overcome  his  sorrows  ? 
But  all  these  magniloquent  shows  end ;  this 
mirth  dies  in  the  distance,  and  a  silence  falls. 
Said  I  not  of  laughter,  it  is  vain?  O  know 
you  not,  sad  Ecclesiastes,  that  an  hour  of 
honest  mirth  in  quieter  times  is  pleasant  to 
remember? — yet  there  is  pathos  in  the  mem 
ory  !  It  is  not  far  from  laughter  to  tears,  and 
there  is  a  spot  at  last  where  pure  bonhommie, 
like  animal  courage,  evaporates.  Stay !  stal 
wart  form,  mirthful  presence !  Did  I  ever  see 
you  sad?  Sad  for  others  you  had  often  need 
to  be,  and  even  yours  was  the  end  appointed 
for  all  living;  but  where  did  I  ever  behold  a 
face  that  could  be  so  radiant,  save  one,  on 
which  the  light  of  heaven  itself  was  then  shin- 


240  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ing?  When  you  return  in  memory  how  often 
it  is  with  a  semblance  of  Wordsworth's  "Gray- 
haired  Man  of  Glee !" 

"The  sighs  that  Matthew  heaved  were  sighs 

Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness ; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness." 

Surely  the  lines  might  have  been  written  for 
you !  Still,  to  me  you  remain  as  I  used  to  see 
you,  and  as  you  were  on  this  schoolboy  day 
of  mine,  your  lips,  your  eyes  gave  no  hint  of 
the  "speechless  dust"  to  which  they  have  since 
gone. 

Perhaps,  on  some  Saturday  evening  in  late 
October,  when  printers'  types  were  dropped 
and  office  cares  dismissed,  I  have  stolen  away 
to  the  sitting-room  of  your  house,  to  which  I 
had  entree,  as  to  a  public  library  or  reading- 
room.  The  place  is  empty  and  quiet ;  the 
lamp  unlit,  but  the  firelight  in  the  open  grate 
glances  on  the  floor,  and  brightens  the  dark 
wainscoting.  I  take  up  a  copy  of  Black-wood, 
or  The  Westminster,  maybe,  and  turn  the 
leaves,  not  reading  much,  but  musing,  and 
hearing  the  autumn  wind  in  the  shrubbery  out 
side — listening  for  the  sounding  of  your  feet 


Our  Doctor.  241 

upon  the  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  the  opening 
of  the  heavy  door.  The  younger  brother, 
sharer  of  the  home  with  you,  is  not  here,  and 
I  do  not  see  even  the  domestic.  It  may  be, 
for  the  nonce,  a  delightful  solitude;  but,  ah! 
doctor,  has  it  not  been  too  much  a  solitude  for 
you? 

"His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin  bonnily, 
His  clane  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  little  infant  prattling  on  his  knee."  .  .  . 

I  have  heard  you  give  the  lines  pathetic  into 
nation.  But  yet  no  sweet-faced  woman  swept 
your  hearth,  and  put  the  beech- wood  on  the 
fire,  or  kissed  you  in  your  hour  of  weary- 
heartedness,  and  called  you,  "husband."  Hap 
pier  for  you,  I  sometimes  think  it  might  have 
been,  in  your  declining  years.  No  little  chil 
dren — much  as  you  loved  them — gamboled 
in  your  firelight,  or  with  sweetest  looks  and 
words*  sat  on  your  knee  at  evening,  and 
brought  heaven  a  little  nearer  to  your  heart. 
Well,  I  know  not  why  you  failed  of  this; 
maybe  He  withheld  this  supreme  gift  who  is 
good  not  only  in  that  which  he  gives,  but  also 
in  that  which  he  denies.  At  last  you  come  in 
from  some  chilly  ride  over  the  hills  to  distant 
16 


242  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

patients;  then,  after  you  have  supped,  we  sit 
by  the  firelight,  until  it  is  time  to  take  the 
candle  and  go  to  bed. 

I  left  the  horse  and  buggy  in  the  charge  of 
my  companion,  while  I  went  up  the  slope  to 
the  graveyard  of  the  little  Episcopal  church  at 

W .      It   rises  out  of  embowering  green, 

and  the  white  headstones  are  ranged  in  clean 
lines  along  the  soft  grass,  and  at  the  head  of 
each  mound.  Ha!  this  is  yours!  A  plain 
upright  slab  of  marble  bears  the  familiar 
name, 

"E— L— B." 

And  here  is  a  familiar  symbol, — a  white  hand, 
with  index  finger  pointing  upward.  Has  it 
relation,  O  departed  spirit,  to  thy  aspiration 
or  destiny? 

"Sic  itur  ad  astra." 
O  friend  of  my  boyhood, — 

"Can  it  be 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee?" 

Ha!  the  wheels  have  rattled  away  out  of 
hearing ;  the  doctor  is  hastening  to  his  patients ; 
the  bell  rings  out  of  the  school-house  door,  and 


Our  Doctor.  243 

the  children  come  trooping  back;  from  the 
shelter  of  the  old  apple-trees  again  the  little 
human  bees  buzz  eddying  into  the  hive. 

.  .  .  What  is  this  ?  Surely  it  is  the  fall 
ing  of  the  balm-of-Gilead  buds!  I  scent  the 
aromatic  memory.  Change,  and  sorrow,  and 
loss, — yet,  somehow  the  heart  leaps  up,  as  of 
old,  when  the  spring  is  here! 


CSracc  of 


i. 


"Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  ar 
riving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge 
curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love — But  praise !   praise ! 
praise ! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding 
Death."  — Whitman. 

"Many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme." 

—Keats. 

AND  so  have  I,  when,  as  sorrow's  friendly 
minister,  I  have  stood  to  gaze  silently,  where 
many  eyes  were  looking.  And  how  their 
glances  differ!  Some  are  eager,  and  curious; 
some  are  tender  with  mist  of  tears ;  some 
yearn,  and  dwell  long  over  the  image  beloved ; 
244 


The  Grace  of  Death.  245 

some  are  so  shaded  with  crape  they  can  not 
be  seen.  Can  you  tell  us  how  those  shaded 
eyes  see?  Or  if  they  gaze  upon  the  rosebud 
babe ;  or  one  whose  maidenly  charm  is  best 
spoken  by  the  flower  full-blown ;  or  the  settled 
content,  where  all  has  at  last  been  attained,  of 
one  who,  "full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  wisdom, 
lays  his  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose?" 
I  have  had  glimpses  of  Israfil,  in  many  of 
his  moods,  and  in  many  of  mine ;  variously 
decked  have  I  looked  upon  him,  and  some 
times  grotesquely  attired.  For  our  vanities 
impose  strangely  upon  him,  and  often  we  hang 
his  native  grace  with  the  solemn  mimicry  of 
our  woe.  Yet,  underneath  all,  there  is  the  gra 
cious  stateliness,  such  as  the  marble  that  was 
molded  by  Phidias  can  not  image,  and  a  shin 
ing  attire  known  best  to  the  angels. 

II. 

"O  lovely  appearance  of  death !"  exclaimed 
the  hymnist  who  delighted  most  in  rapture  and 
rhapsody.  He  was  there,  where  sober  Folly 
dresses  in  her  heaviest  sables,  just  in  time ;  for 
this,  like  all  beauty  born  where  flowers  fade, 
is  evanescent,  and  soon 

"Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers." 


246  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

A  seraph  might,  perhaps,  sing  thus,  up  at 
the  altitude  of  the  jasper  foundation :  "O  just 
and  eloquent  and  mighty  Death,"  great  is  thy 
victorious  loveliness,  who  hast  been  the  pas 
sion  of  poets  and  of  saints,  and  who,  like  the 
pyramidal  flame,  readiest  forever  upward ! 
Our  evangelical  poet  was  worthy  of  Israfil, — 
the  angel  who  turns  our  face  toward  the  morn 
ing,  and  the  place  where  "the  shadows  flee 
away,"  rather  than  the  grosser  shape  from  the 
region  of  ghastliness.  But  a  more  mundane 
minstrel^  with  veins  sometimes  swelling  with 
unchastened  fire, — the  son  of  pride  and  pas 
sion, — who  also  looked,  and  saw  the  grace  of 
death,  marked,  to  portray 

"The  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that 's  there." 

We  returned  to  dwell  once  more  upon  those 
homely,  but  striking,  features, — 

"He  looked  so  grand  when  he  was  dead !" 

And  this  was  not  the  earl,  in  all  his  hateful 
beauty.  It  was  an  old  farmer,  who  had  ceased 
to  till  his  scanty  acres, — waging  an  unequal 
war  with  poverty, — and  he  was  then  newly 
laid  to  that  repose  which  no  impertinent  morn- 


The  Grace  of  Death.  247 

ing  can  disturb,  in  a  room  so  barely  furnished 
you  would  get  from  it  no  artistic  or  literary 
suggestion.  It  was  one  of  the  tamest  farm 
steads  in  rustic  Maine.  Yet  he  who  rested  in 
that  plain  coffin  had  such  a  touch  of  majesty 
as  death  sometimes  gives.  My  friend,  who 
looked  with  me,  drew  back,  with  an  air  of  sur 
prise,  and  said  to  me,  after  we  had  gone  out : 
"What  a  remarkable  face!  He  looked  like 
Emerson,  lying  there  so  quietly !"  What,  then, 
had  you  gazed  upon  the  face  of  Shakespeare, 
just  before  it  became  forever  invisible,  at 
Stratford-on-Avon  ?  What  if  you  had  looked 
into  the  glorious  orbs  of  Burns, — of  which 
"the  last  minstrel"  has  given  us  a  tradition, — 
and  then  had  seen  them  veiled  for  all  time, 
when  the  people  were  about  to  bear  him  to 
his  grave  in  old  St.  Michael's  ?  One  has  said 
well,  who  has  not  always  said  well.*  In  speak 
ing  of  this  world's  favorite,  he  exclaimed: 
"How  that  man  rose  above  all  his  fellows  in 
death !  Do  you  know,  there  is  something  won 
derful  in  death  ?  What  repose !  What  a  piece 
of  sculpture!  The  common  man  dead,  looks 
royal;  a  genius  dead,  sublime." 

*  Robert  G.  Ingersoll. 


248  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

III. 

The  grace  of  death  has  rarely  had  a  finer 
illustration  that  that  given  us  by  Eckermann 
in  his  memorials  of  one  of  the  most  mag 
nificent  of  geniuses :  "The  morning  after 
Goethe's  death,  a  deep  longing  came  over  me 
to  see  his  earthly  shell  once  again.  His  faith 
ful  servant,  Frederick,  opened  the  door  where 
they  had  laid  him.  Stretched  upon  his  back, 
he  lay  like  one  asleep,  power  and  deep  peace 
upon  the  features  of  his  sublimely  noble  face. 
The  mighty  brow  seemed  still  busy  with 
thoughts.  I  longed  for  a  lock  of  his  hair, 
but  reverence  forbade  my  cutting  it.  The  body 
lay  nude,  wrapped  in  a  white  sheet.  Fred 
erick  threw  the  sheet  open,  and  I  was  amazed 
at  the  godlike  magnificence  of  those  limbs. 
The  chest  was  exceeedingly  powerful,  broad 
and  arched ;  the  arms  and  thighs  full  and 
muscular;  the  feet  of  perfect  form,  and  no 
where  on  the  body  a  trace  of  superfluous 
flesh,  or  of  emaciation  or  shrinking.  A  per 
fect  man  lay  in  great  beauty  before  me,  and 
admiration  made  me  for  a  moment  forget 
that  the  immortal  spirit  had  left  such  a  hab 
itation." 


The  Grace  of  Death.  249 


IV. 

When  and  where  did  you  first  read,  "The 
May  Queen,"  of  Tennyson, — that  loveliest 
idyll  of  girlhood,  dying  ere  her  prime?  Was 
it  late  in  a  summer  evening,  after  you 
had  brought  the  cows  home,  surrounded  by 
the  wide,  fern-scented  Acadian  uplands, — 
fields  and  pastures  whose  paths  were  so 
sweet  with  balmy  herbs  that  you  have  de 
clared  no  others  are  like  them?  And,  when 
quiet  had  settled  on  all  the  folded  hills 
stretching  down  toward  glimmering  Minas, 
and  dimmer  and  dimmer  grew  "the  long 
gray  fields,"  would  it  be  any  shame  if  you 
lifted  your  eyes  from  the  page,  somewhat 
tearfully,  having  read,  over  and  over  again : 

"There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  frost  is 

on  the  pane : 

I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again; 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out 

on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  '11  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm- 
tree, 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 


250  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer 

o'er  the  wave, 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  moldering 

grave. 

All  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  the  angels 

call: 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark 

was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to 

roll, 
When  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  them  call 

my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Erne 

dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer 

here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I 

felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the 

wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  listened  in  my 

bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not 

what  was  said ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all 

my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the 

wind." 


The  Grace  of  Death.  251 

Is  this  all  a  fancy  of  the  poet?  The  sim 
ple-minded  cottager  will  tell  you  in  good  faith, 
and  without  embellishment,  a  like  story.  It 
was  nearly  midnight.  An  October  moon  was 
wallowing  in  cloud;  the  wind  whitened  the 
wave-crests  of  the  St.  Croix,  at  Bayside.  They 
beat  upon  the  shore  just  below  the  cottage  of 

Master   B ,   in   a  chamber   of  which   his 

daughter  lay  dying  of  a  brain  fever.  Alice 
had  been  the  white  lamb  of  the  Master's  flock, 
the  flower  of  all  his  garden;  she  was  one  of 
those  gentle  and  beautiful  beings  to  whose 
pathway  we  deem  angels  might  stoop,  haunt 
ing  her  footsteps,  from  pure  love  of  her  com 
panionship.  She  had  been  delirious  during 
several  hours,  and  was  now  past  any  hope  of 
recovery.  Her  head  lay  sidewise  on  the  pil 
low,  her  golden  hair  damp  with  the  dews  of 
death;  now  and  then  she  uttered  a  moan,  and 
her  bosom  heaved  convulsively.  Suddenly  a 
wild  aerial  melody  outside  was  mingled  with 
the  voice  of  the  wind.  Every  head  was  up 
raised,  of  those  who  wept  and  waited,  and 
each  looked  to  the  other  inquiringly : 

"What  harmony  is  this? — my  good  friends,  hark! 
Marvelous  sweet  music !" 


252  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  dying  girl  opened  her  eyes,  and,  with 
outstretched  hands,  exclaimed,  "Angels!  beau 
tiful  angels !"  Then  she  collapsed,  and  ceased 
breathing;  while,  at  the  same  moment,  the 
aerial  delicious  melody  seemed  in  the  room, 
thrilling  with  a  dreadful  delight  every  one  who 
heard  it. 

"And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  win 
dow  bars ; 

Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven,  and  die 
among  the  stars." 

Happy  were  the  words  of  Richter,  and  a 
scene  like  this  gives  them  new  meaning: 
"Music  is  a  bridge  over  which  chastened  and 
purified  spirits  enter  a  brighter  world."  When 
she  was  dressed  for  burial,  she  seemed  beau 
tiful  as  Elaine  in  the  hour  when,  laid  in  her 
stately  barge, 

"The  dead 

Steered  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood, — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  though  she  smiled." 


The  Grace  of  Death.  253 

One  standing  beside  her,  as  she  lay  in  the 
little  parlor  of  Master  B.'s  cottage,  might  have 
spoken  these  words,  and  they  would  have  been 
fit  for  funeral  song: 

"Tread  lightly — lest  she  sleep ! — we  did  not  know 

That  death  could  be  so  beautiful  as  this ! 
Infinite  peace,  on  marble  cheek  and  brow, 

Lies  like  an  angel's  kiss. 
In  rapt  repose,  in  sweet  unconscious  grace, 

She  sleeps — the  fair  hands  lightly  laid  to  rest ; 
A  quiet,  not  of  earth,  is  on  her  face, 

Pure  as  the  snowy  flowers  upon  her  breast. 

It  is  not  she,  but  the  fine  counterpart 

Of  all  that  she  but  yesterday  did  seem ; 
Fashioned  and  molded  by  divinest  art; 

Fair  as  a  poet's  dream ! 
Sacred  as  love, — though  but  the  empty  shrine 

Whence  life  had  fled  to  seek  a  higher  goal, 
Bearing  the  touch  of  messengers  divine 

That  bore  to  fairer  realms  the  fairest  soul."* 


V. 


These  are  memorial  images  of  my  infancy: 
I  see  my  baby-brother  lying  like  a  plucked 
flower,  white  and  round,  as  are  the  wax- 
berries  growing  beside  our  open  door.  It  is 
afternoon,  and  the  scents  and  sounds  of  sum- 


*Agnes  Maule  Machar. 


254  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

mer  are  floating  in.  There  is  nothing,  outside 
one  shadowy  room,  that  suggests  death  or 
grief;  but  there  my  mother  stands,  and  looks 
and  weeps.  Or,  on  another  day,  I  lift  a  cor 
ner  of  the  window  blind,  which  has  been 
dropped  by  a  timid  girl  to  hide  a  funeral  pro 
cession  that  is  passing.  I  know  whose  form 
lies  in  the  darked  coffin,  covered  with  its  pall, 
which  is  being  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of 
marching  men,  to  that  place  of  the  leaning 
mossy  stone  and  the  blossoming  wild  brier.  It 
is  the  woman  of  the  fair  face,  and  the  flowing, 
ringleted  hair,  who  had  borne  me  in  her  arms, 
or  carried  me,  as  she  has  now  to  be  carried, 
upon  the  shoulder.  It  is  my  father's  sister, 
denied  the  fullness  of  her  years,  parted  from 
her  husband  and  infant  daughter.  It  is  now 
the  twilight  of  an  autumnal  day,  when  I  enter 
the  home  where  dwelt  my  grandparents,  to 
see  an  aged  woman  bowed  before  the  kitchen 
fire-place,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  her 
body  swaying  in  the  tempest  of  her  passion 
ate  grief.  "O,  Grammy !"  I  cry,  "have  you 
burned  yourself?"  She  gathers  me  to  her 
bosom,  and  weeps  over  me.  Alas !  her  own 
brave  boy  is  buried ! 

"His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 
Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave." 


The  Grace  of  Death.  255 


VI. 


"O,  Addie!  she  kissed  me!  I  stooped,  just 
now,  and  put  my  lips  to  hers,  and  she  kissed 
me!"  This  was  the  passionate  averment  of 
poor  Fred,  an  hour  after  his  Mary  closed  her 
eyes.  Was  this  fantasy,  or  did  her  gentle 
spirit  hover  upon  those  cold  lips  to  give  him 
once  more  the  accustomed  greeting?  Fred 
and  Mary !  so  close  together  in  life ;  in  death 
they  lie,  by  the  breadth  of  a  continent,  apart. 
She,  beside  her  father,  in  the  little  dell  of  the 
cemetery  at  St.  Andrews,  whose  highest  part 
looks  over  Kettie's  Cove.  The  whispering  fir- 
tree  sentinels  her  grave.  He,  near  the  banks 
of  the  Fraser,  surrounded  by  the  hills  and 
forests  of  British  Columbia.  We,  who  dwelt 
with  them,  and  knew  and  loved  them, — we 
wander  forward  a  little  farther : 

"We  have  far  to  go : 
Bend  to  your  paddles,  comrades :  see,  the  light 

Ebbs  off  apace;  we  must  not  linger  so. 
Aye,  thus  it  is  !    Heaven  gleams  and  then  is  gone : 
Once,  twice,  it  smiles,  and  still  we  wander  on."* 


*Archibald  Lampman. 


256  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

VII. 

We  go  sliddering  along  over  the  glary  ice, 
our  sleigh  sliding  from  side  to  side  of  the  hill- 
road,  till,  suddenly,  we  turn  a  corner  of  the 
little  hamlet,  and  come  to  the  door  of  a  fisher 
man's  cottage,  in  the  neighborhood  and  pres 
ence  of  the  sea.  There  stands  the  hearse,  and 
there  are  clustered  teams  and  people.  The 
small  rooms  of  the  little  tenement  are  already 
inconveniently  full.  The  ceremonial  of  view 
ing  the  remains  is  accomplished  with  difficulty. 
I  make  my  way  in,  as  best  I  may,  followed 
by  my  companion,  who  is  to  join  me  in  the 
singing  of  funeral  hymns,  which  should  be 
"sweet  and  low,"  tremulous  and  tender,  softly 
rendered.  There  is  a  hush,  broken  only  by 
sobs,  as  the  burial  service  is  read,  and  the 
funeral  hymns  are  chanted.  Now,  it  is  a  song 
of  one  who  is 

"Asleep  in  Jesus,  blessed  sleep 
From  which  none  ever  wakes  to  weep." 

Now,  it  is  the  strain  of  some  bruised  one, 
kneeling  at  the  threshold  of  the  Eternal  Mercy ; 
and,  again,  it  is  a  paean  of  joyous  greeting  in 
that  land  where  partings  are  not,  and  where 


The  Grace  of  Death.  257 

good-byes  are  never  uttered.  Then  came  the 
leave-taking.  It  was  a  plain  woman,  past  the 
noon  of  life,  whose  face  was  disclosed;  but  a 
woman  beloved,  for  whom  there  were  tears  to 
be  shed.  There  is,  among  these  fisher-folk  of 
simple  feelings  and  habits,  a  primitive  aban 
don  to  their  tides  of  feeling,  and  often  in  cases 
like  this,  a  pathetic  freedom  of  utterance.  A 
granddaughter  hovering  over  the  quiet  sleeper, 
sobbed,  and  cried,  —  "O,  Grammy !  I  shall 
miss  you  so !  Not  to  see  you  in  the  house  any 
more,  or  to  wave  my  hand  to  you  as  I  go  past !" 
For  this,  living  in  a  neighboring  house,  she 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing.  And  the  old 
man,  the  husband  of  her  who  had  departed, 
bowed  over  the  beloved,  familiar  face,  and, 
gazing  long  and  fondly,  sadly  said :  "Farewell, 
my  good  companion  for  over  fifty  years. 
You  Ve  left  me  at  last,  and  I  shall  have  to 
miss  you.  But  if  you  still  live,  and  have  need, 
may  there  be  a  kind  hand  to  shield  you  in  that 
home  where,  they  say,  there  will  be  One  to 
take  us  in."  For  here,  I  listen  to  the  sorrow 
ful  complaint  of  that  soul  to  whom  the  assuring 
promise  of  Him  who  said,  "I  am  the  resur 
rection  and  the  life,"  has  but  a  doubtful  note 
of  comfort.  Jesus  would  have  need  of  saying 
17 


258  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

to  him,  as  to  Martha  and  Mary  of  Bethany, 
"Believest  thou  this?"  Then  the  procession 
is  formed,  and  we  move  to  the  grave,  bough- 
buried,  green,  like  our  yet  unfading  memory,  or 
the  fantasies  and  attributes  of  our  affection, — 

"With   which,   like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse 

beneath, 

We  still  adorn  and  hide  the  darkening  bulk  of 
death."  * 

VIII. 

The  dying  of  a  poet  should  itself  be  a  poem ! 
It  was  such  when  Tennyson  went.  A  lyric, 
deep-hearted  as  his  "Break,  break,  break," 
or  as  sweetly  solemn,  at  curfew-time,  as  his 
"Crossing  the  Bar."  Spenser's  burial  was  a 
poem.  For  a  spray  of  laurel  or  yew,  each  poet 
threw  an  elegy  into  the  open  grave.  These 
were  not  lost :  think  of  the  poesy  inspired  by 
the  "Faery  Queen !"  Chatterton  and  Poe 
added  to  death  the  awful  grace  of  tragedy. 

Alas !  the  gentler  grace  is  lost  in  the  mem 
ory  of  "mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead," 
as,  on  that  morning,  when  his  garret-chamber 
was  broken  open,  and  there  lay  the  inanimate 

*Shelley,  "Adonais." 


The  Grace  of  Death.  259 

form  of  "the  marvelous  boy,  the  sleepless  soul 
that  perished  in  his  pride,"  who  had  taken 
arsenic  mixed  with  water,  two  nights  before. 
Yes,  there  he  lay, — who  had  taken  destiny  into 
his  own  hand>  when 

"Black  despair, 

The  shadow  of  a  starless  night  was  thrown 
Over  the  earth  in  which  he  moved  alone, — "* 

surrounded  by  his  torn  manuscript  poems. 
They  gathered  up  the  bits  of  melancholy  paper, 
and  went  and  buried  him  in  the  potter's  field. 
The  possibility  of  a  splendid  career,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  suicidal  madness,  was  ended! 

"Cut  was  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full 

straight, 
And  burned  was  Apollo's  laurel  bough."f 

Saith  Sir  Thomas  Browne:  "I  have  so  ab 
ject  a  conceit  of  this  common  way  of  existence, 
this  retaining  to  the  sun  and  elements,  I 
can  not  think  this  to  be  a  man,  or  to  live 
according  to  the  dignity  of  humanity.  In 
expectation  of  a  better,  I  can  with  patience 
embrace  this  life,  yet  in  my  best  meditations 
do  oft  desire  death.  I  honor  any  man  that  con- 

*Shelley.  f  Marlowe's  "  Faustus." 


260  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

temns  it,  nor  can  I  highly  love  any  that  is 
afraid  of  it."  Yet,  as  little  to  be  honored,  we 
think,  is  the  pride  that  is  greater  than  faith 
and  fortitude,  and  that  desperate  rushing  on 
death  of  those  who  have  not  the  courage  to 
live ;  for  the  same  writer  observes :  "It  is  a 
brave  act  of  valor  to  contemn  death ;  but  where 
life  is  more  terrible  than  death,  it  is  then  the 
truest  valor  to  dare  to  live ;  and  herein  religion 
hath  taught  us  a  noble  example.  For  all  the 
valiant  acts  of  Curtius,  Sczvola,  or  Codrus, 
do  not  parallel  or  match  that  one  of  Job ;  and 
sure  there  is  no  torture  to  the  rack  of  dis 
ease,  nor  any  poniards  in  death  itself,  like 
those  in  the  way  of  prologue  to  it.  H  mori 
nolo,  sed  me  esse  mortumn  nihil  euro.  I  would 
not  die,  but  care  not  to  be  dead."* 

Kings  and  queens,  whose  lives  have  been 
like  soilure  to  their  robes,  and  like  rust  to 
their  crowns,  have  by  their  passing  added  to 
the  grace  of  death.  Scarcely  a  Stuart  (ill- 
fated  race!)  who  did  not  strike  us  with  the 
dread  of  life — as  if  a  serpent's  beauty  and 
malignity  were}  hidden  there;  scarcely  one 
who  did  not  charm  us  with  the  beauty  or 
heroism  of  death,  from  Mary,  who  fell  at  Foth- 

"'Religio  Medici. 


The  Grace  of  Death.  261 

eringay,  to  James,  who  closed  his  eyes  breath 
ing  faint  thanks  to  his  hospitable  brother- 
monarch  at  St.  Germain.  We  all  know  how 
the  first  Charles  demeaned  himself  that  cruel 
day,  when,  in  front  of  Whitehall,  he  met 
the  headsman;  where  Bishop  Juxon  minis 
tered  comfort,  and  the  king,  who  had  laid  down 
his  pride,  meekly  received  it,  and  said:  "I 
go  from  a  corruptible  to  an  incorruptible 
crown,  where  no  disturbance  can  be."  No 
Cromwell  could  have  done  more  nobly;  and 
the  lord  protector  was  too  lumberingly  gloomy 
for  an  equal  grace.  As  for  the  second 
Charles,  no  crown  could  be  so  corruptible 
as  his  morals.  One  is  not  surprised  when 
heroes  make  death  easy,  as  Montrose,  or  my 
Lord  Russell,  with  whom  the  bitterness  of 
death  was  past,  so  soon  as  he  had  taken  leave 
of  that  more  than  royal  lady,  his  wife  and 
secretary.  But  who  may  not  hope  to  "die 
well,"  when  even  a  single  beam  of  gentle  ra 
diance  fell  upon  the  forlorn  parting  of  that 
poor  butterfly,  who  once,  while  the  Dutch  fleet 
crept  up  the  Thames,  chased  his  brother  moth 
through  the  parlors  of  my  Lady  Castlemaine ! 
How  pathetically  polite,  this  Charles,  with 
his  French  education  and  wonderful  manners! 


262  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  Queen  was  too  much  agitated  to  come  to 
him.  In  her  distress  she  asks  the  dying  king, 
by  the  lips  of  my  Lord  Halifax,  to  excuse  and 
pardon  her.  "Poor  woman,"  he  murmured, 
"I  ask  hers  with  all  my  heart !"  And  perhaps 
he  had  need  to.  Then,  when  the  painful  scene 
was  protracted,  the  king  requested  them  to 
draw  the  curtain  and  admit  once  more  to  his 
fading  sight  the  light  of  the  sun,  saying :  "I 
beg  your  pardon  for  giving  you  so  much 
trouble ;  I  am  a  very  long  time  dying !"  Alas  ! 
poor  king !  why  should  not  one  wish  to  wear 
the  thorny  jewels  of  his  crown  a  little  longer? 
You,  perhaps,  not  so  much  "to  dumb  forget- 
fulness  a  prey,"  as  others  of  your  species,  who 
have  resigned  "this  cheerful,  anxious  being," 
can  not  be  expected  to  go  without  reluctance, 
seeing  that  your  treasure  is  here, — 

"Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind." 

Does  love  add  to  the  grace  of  death  ?  Then 
must  it  add  to  the  awe  and  pain  thereof.  This 
feeling  comes  over  us  as  we  learn  of  the  grief 
of  William  for  his  Queen  Mary ;  which  is  un- 
equaled  for  pathos,  unless  that  of  Victoria  for 
Albert,  her  consort,  can  equal  it.  When 
William  was  dead,  there  was  found  over  his 
heart,  in  a  little  silk  bag,  the  wedding-ring 


The  Grace  of  Death.  263 

he  had  drawn  from  Mary's  dying-hand,  and 
a  lock  of  her  precious  hair.  To  kings,  as  well 
as  to  peasants,  "it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love 
what  death  may  touch."  * 

The  poets,  for  their  songs,  have  borrowed 
something  of  the  grace  of  death ;  from  the  lays 
of  him  who  sang  the  woes  of  Troy,  to  him 
who  made  death  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  Evan- 
geline,  while  she  lifted  them  up  in  tears,  and 
said,  "Father,  I  thank  thee !"  What  a  radi 
ance  did  Henry  Vaughan  behold  amid  the 
glooms  of  death ! 

"And  yet  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 

themes, 
And  into  glory  peep." 

With  what  delicacy,  with  what  more  than 
woman's  tenderness,  could  Hood  realize  to  us 
the  passing  of  a  beautiful  woman !  What  need 
to  quote  it,  and  yet  what  may  be  quoted  more 
fitly! 

"We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 


'Felicia  Hemans. 


264  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours." 

When  we  read  these  verses,  there  comes 
straightway  to  memory  little  Eva,  Mrs.  Stowe's 
delightful  child,  and  those  subtly  exquisite  cre 
ations,  Nell  and  Paul  Dombey. 

The  tender,  brooding  eyes  of  Charles  Dick 
ens  have  marked  the  grace  of  death,  and  his 
pencil  drew  what  aspects  are  most  beautiful. 
Israfil,  through  him,  becomes  the  gentlest  of 
familiars, — the  most  benevolent  of  the  angel- 
kind,  who  serve  our  race, — whose  hand  and 
foot,  in  our  solemn  chambers,  become  softer 
than  those  of  womankind.  Suffer  him,  ye 
ages,  still  to  bespeak  "the  last  of  life  for  which 
the  first  was  made !"  Sweet,  pathetic,  radi 
ant  Nell!  When  can  we  forget  thee,  or  lose 


The  Grace  of  Death.  265 

the  sense  thou  givest  us,  as  we  see  thee, — 
lying  there,  where  thy  poet  has  placed  thee, — 
the  exquisite  sense  of  how  gainful,  how  beau 
tiful  a  thing  it  may  be  to  die  ?  And  that 
"eternal  child" — little  Paul  Dombey !  What 
say  the  wild  waves,  sister,  of  that  uncharted, 
unsounded  sea,  toward  which  our  little  river 
of  Time  is  bearing  us  ?  The  light  of  the  sink 
ing  sun,  striking  "through  the  rustling  blinds," 
still  quivers  "on  the  wall  like  golden  water ;" 
but  he  has  seen  a  brighter,  gladder  vision  on 
that  farther  shore, — has  gone  to  meet  her  who 
is  that  vision,  and  save  for  a  sister's  sob,  there 
is  solitude  and  silence  now  about  him: 

"Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by 
the  face!  But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon 
the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough.  The 
light  about  the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  'I  go !' 

"The  Grace  of  Death." 

"The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back 
again,  and  nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room. 
The  old,  old  fashion!  The  fashion  that  came 
in  with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  un 
changed  until  our  race  has  run  its  course,  and 
the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  as  a  scroll. 
The  old,  old  fashion — Death! 


266  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"O,  thank  God,  all  ye  who  see  it,  for  that 
older  fashion  yet,  of  immortality!  And  look 
upon  us,  angels  of  young  children,  with  re 
gards  not  quite  estranged,  when  the  swift 
river  bears  us  to  the  ocean !" 


IX. 


Not  only  Hood,  but  the  German  poet,  Uh- 
land,  has  touched  death  with  ineffable  grace 
and  tenderness,  and  charmed  its  sadness  and 
silence  with  ethereal  light  and  music.  Some 
maid  or  matron,  some  celestial  child,  goes  out 
with  the  tide  divinely  in  three  or  four  calm 
and  perfect  stanzas.  This  is  Uhland's  little 
jewel  of  celestial  light,  which  sparkles  in  the 
beam  of  a  smile,  though  tears  are  there.  Let 
the  voice  of  the  reader  be  "low  and  sweet," 
and,  like  these  words,  full  of  a  supernal 
wonder : 

"What  sounds  so  sweet  awake  me? 
What  fills  me  with  delight? 

0  mother,  look !  who  sings  thus 
So  sweetly  through  the  night? 

1  hear  not,  child,  I  see  not ; 

O,  sleep  thou  softly  on ; 
Comes  now  to  serenade  thee, 
Thou  poor,  sick  maiden,  none ! 


The  Grace  of  Death.  267 

It  is  not  earthly  music 

That  fills  me  with  delight ; 
I  hear  the  angels  call  me : 

O,  mother,  dear,  good-night !" 


X. 


The  grace  of  death !  It  is  seen  on  Zutphen's 
field,  where  that  mirror  of  Christian  chivalry 
passed  on  the  cup  of  cold  water,  with  the 
immortal  phrase  of  self-renunciation, — "Thy 
necessity  is  greater  than  mine."  I  marvel  not 
that  Lord  Brooke  instructed  that  these  words 
should  be  put  for  his  epitaph :  "Here  lies  the 
friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney."  It  is  heard  in 
the  "Ay,  ay,  sir!"  of  John  Maynard,  as  he 
stood  at  his  post  of  duty  as  wheelsman,  and 
shriveled  in  the  fire  of  the  burning  steamer. 
It  is  seen  in  that  upper  chamber  where  the 
Apostle  of  Methodism  lifts  up  his  hands  in 
benediction,  as  he  gathers  up  his  feet  in  death, 
and  exclaims  to  the  generations  following, — 
"The  best  of  all  is,  God  is  with  us !"  The  grace 
of  death !  See  it  in  Tennyson's  serene,  pale 
face,  lying  on  its  pillow  in  the  moonlit  room  at 
Aldworth,  while  his  hand  rests  on  the  page  of 
that  grand  world-poet  he  courted  till  the  last ! 
Behold  it  in  Elizabeth  Browning's  ecstatic  de- 


268  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

parture  from  Casa  Guida,  and  the  arms  of  her 
sorrowing  poet — the  husband  for  whom  years 
before,  she  had,  as  her  heart  demanded,  left  all 
others.  Behold  it  in  that  chamber  at  Abbots- 
ford,  with  the  open  window,  and  the  sound 
of  the  silver  Tweed  upon  his  pebbles ;  when 
the  kneeling  son  of  the  great  Magician  closed 
the  eyes  that  had  looked  on  the  world  in  glad 
ness  and  in  sorrow,  and  had  seen  the  marvels 
of  their  time.  These  names  are  but  chosen 
from  those  of  the  great  multitude  who  illus 
trate  the  grace  of  death. 

XL 

That  charming  old  English  writer,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  whose  moralizings  on  our 
common  morality,  are  among  the  most  precious 
of  the  relics  of  our  English  tongue,  says  of 
sleep:  "It  is  that  death  by  which  we  may  be 
literally  said  to  die  daily ;  a  death  which  Adam 
died  before  his  mortality ;  a  death  whereby 
we  live  a  middle  and  moderating  point  between 
life  and  death ;  in  fine,  so  like  death,  I  dare 
not  trust  it  without  my  prayers,  and  a  half 
adieu  unto  the  world,  and  take  my  farewell  in 
a  colloquy  with  God. 


The  Grace  of  Death.  269 

"  'Sleep  is  a  death ;  O  make  me  try, 
By  sleeping  what  it  is  to  die; 
And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again  at  least  with  thee. 
And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie, 
Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 
These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 
I  now  do  wake  to  sleep  again : 
O  come  that  hour,  when  I  shall  never 
Sleep  again,  but  wake  forever.' 

"This  is  the  dormitive.  I  take  to  bedward : 
I  need  no  other  laudanum  than  this  to  make 
me  sleep :  after  which  I  close  mine  eyes  in 
security,  content  to  take  my  leave  of  the  sun 
and  sleep  unto  the  resurrection."  * 

But  who  lendeth  death  such  a  grace  that  all 
the  poets  laud  his  reign  with  sweet,  sad  elegies  ? 
Was  it  not  the  lonely  treader  of  the  wine 
press,  who  was  dumb  in  the  hands  of  the 
slayer,  but  whose  eloquent  lips  shattered  the 
bars  of  the  sepulcher?  Even  that  suffering 
Child  of  Nazareth,  concerning  wrhom  the 
Frenchman  exclaimed:  "Socrates  died  like  a 
philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ  like  a  God."  He 
lends  death  grace,  and  he  follows  death  with 
glory. 

*  Religio  Medici 


270  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

XII. 

To  our  eyes  the  land  of  the  sun  has  grown 
dimmer;  the  orange  and  myrtle  have  paled 
into  gloom.  I  can  see  no  longer  the  almond 
and  olive;  no  more  comes  the  spicy  scent  of 
the  eucalyptus;  the  laurel-tree  and  the  grace 
ful  pepper  charm  us  no  more.  There  rises  a 
mist  from  the  sea  that  has  hidden  the  fir- 
grove  ;  and  evening  comes  fast  upon  me,  laden 
with  tears. 

Our  sister  is  gone !  The  child  of  the  East 
and  the  West* — our  singer  has  departed ;  a  soft 
and  gentle  star  has  set  in  the  Pacific  wave. 
The  harp  she  hung  in  the  twilight  breeze  is 
silent  forever;  the  light  out  of  the  friendly 
window  is  taken  away.  No  smiling  face  looks 
forth  at  morning ;  no  salutation  is  waved  from 
the  door. 

We  hear  her  music  in  the  purl  of  woodland 
brooks;  in  the  wordless  chime  of  sea  wave, 
and  mountain  torrent ;  in  the  thrush's  aerial 
bell,  tolled  in  the  cedar-vale.  We  see  her  as 
piring  beauty  in  the  star,  and  in  the  curve  of 
the  rainbow;  we  see  her  tranquil  and  shining 
spirit  in  the  sheen  of  a  sunset  sea. 

*  Frances  Laughton  Mace,  born  at  Orono,  Maine,  January 
15,  1836,  and  died  at  Los  Gatos,  California,  July  20,  1899. 


The  Grace  of  Death.  271 

Toll  her  a  joyful  knell,  ye  Bangor  bells ! 
Toll  her  a  funeral  glee,  ye  bells  of  Los  An 
geles  !  Our  sister  is  liberated.  No  longer 
she  looks  to  the  mountains,  whose  gateways 
open  toward  her  loved  Norombega;  no  more 
her  homesick  heart  shall  pine;  no  longer  she 
sits  in  the  invalid's  chair.  From  the  West  to 
the  East  nevermore  a  message,  nor  tender 
thought  from  the  East  to  the  West  again :  only 
from  the  common  sky  the  dream  of  a  white- 
waved  hand. 

Yet  the  land  of  Orono  can  not  forget  her 
singer,  though  the  stately  muse  tread  her 
native  fields  no  more.  Thou,  Piscataquis, 
chattering  over  thy  pebbles,  and  down  thy 
water-breaks,  wilt  not  forget  her;  thou,  Black 
Cap,  wilt  rear  thy  maple  beacons  for  her !  Cas- 
tine,  and  ye  Desert  Isle,  her  name  is  written 
upon  you !  Penobscot  breathes  a  sigh  in  his 
reeds,  from  his  sandy  reaches,  and  from  all 
his  steepy  shores !  Katahdin  utters  a  moan ; 
Kineo  lets  fall  a  tear;  while  far  in  the  South 
the  palm-tree  murmurs,  in  echo,  of  the  North 
ern  pine-tree's  lamentation. 

They  of  her  own  land  are  saying :  "Where, 
with  Israfil,  has  gone  our  white-hearted? 
Where  is  she  who  sang  of  Kinalo?  Where 
is  our  exile  on  the  Western  mountains? 


272  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Where  is  she  who,  the  homesick,  weari 
some  day,  was  'only  waiting'  for  the  glimmer 
of  the  sunset  ?  She  is  gone !  Our  singer  of 
the  sweet  voice  sings  to  us  no  more;  our 
daughter  of  the  beautiful  word  has  departed !" 

XIII. 

"Rest  thee,  blest  spirit ! 

Still'd  on  death's  river  the  turbulent  foam : 
Thou  hast  arrived  at  thy  permanent  home ; 
Thou  dost  inherit 

The  house  whose  foundation  securely  is  laid ; 
Thy  scope 
Is  yon  cope, — 
The  azure,  the  infinite  dome. 

Rest  thee,  blest  spirit ! 

Thy  brow  hath  the  garland  of  merit ; 

Thy  song  is  the  song  of  salvation ! 

Thou  seest  thy  Savior,  thou  markest  the 

wounds. 
O  his  love  and  his  passion, — and,  hark !  there 

resounds, — 
Hosanna !     Hosanna ! 
From  tongues  of  a  glorified  nation  ! 

Rest  thee,  blest  spirit ! 

Sadness  and  sorrow  can  never  invade 

The  heart's  habitation; 

No  mornings  that  break 

Shall  have  power  to  wake 


The  Grace  of  Death.  273 

The  trance  whose  glad  rapture  hath  blessed 

thee; 

The  peace 
Ne'er  shall  cease 
That  thy  heart  doth  pervade, — 
That  with  its  soft  hand  hath  caressed  thee; 
And  thy  heart  hath  forgotten  to  ache. 

With  the  antheming  throng 

Thou  takest  thy  place ; 

With  God's  light  on  thy  face, 

Thou  joinest  the  song, 

And  the  garment  of  white  doth  invest  thee. 

Rest  thee ! 

Rest  thee ! 

Rest! 

No  tears,  no  woes,  no  night ! 

Pure,  beautiful  soul,  thou  hast  found  thy 

delight, — 
Enter  thy  rest !" 


18 


i. 

"Who  hath  desired  the  Sea — the  immense  and  con 
temptuous  surges  ? 

The  shudder,  the  stumble,  the  swerve  ere  the  star- 
stabbing  bowsprit  emerges — 
The  orderly  clouds   of  the  trade  and  the   ridged 

roaring  sapphires  thereunder — 
Unheralded   cliff-lurking   flaws   and   the    headsails 

low-volleying  thunder? 

His  sea  in  no  wonder  the  same — his  sea  and  the 
same  in  each  wonder. 

His  sea  that  his  being  fulfills? 

— Rudyard  Kipling. 

"O  strange,  sublime,  illimitable  Sea, 

Thy  thunders  are  Time's  passing  bell,  and  toll 
The  knell  of  all  that  has  been,  is,  and  is  to  be." 
— George  Frederick  Scott. 

"This  great  and  wide  sea." 

To  PITCH  your  summer  tent  under  the  oaks 
of  Pemaquid,  to  face  the  shore  and  the  sea 
from   their    shelter   when   the    sun    is    declin 
ing,  and  to  hear  the  waves'  soothing  murmur, 
274 


Wave-Songs.  275 

with  the  no  less  somnolent  rustle  of  the  leaves 
overhead, — this  is  a  vernal  luxury,  the  per 
fection  of  the  vacationist's  pleasure;  the  very 
honey  of  the  year,  too  seldom  tasted.  If  a 
little  wind  will  blow,  the  plashing  volumes  of 
green  make  a  laughing  mockery  of  the  sea ;  or 
the  "balsam  pines,  seolian,"  scattered  here  and 
there  throughout  the  grove,  purr  their  soft 
sigh  of  contentment.  In  the  hot  and  quiet 
afternoon  they  are  censers,  steaming  with  heal 
ing  odors.  The  sunset  hues  and  splendors  are 
expunged  from  the  white  sea,  to  make  way 
for  the  stars;  then  an  eye  of  flame  opens  and 
shuts,  flashes  and  fades,  from  the  beacon  tower 
of  Monhegan. 

II 

This  evening  is  a  pearl  in  the  cup  of  our 
enchantment,  precious  as  that  of  Cleopatra. 
The  ruby  is  also  dropped  there,  like  blood  of 
the  evening  sky.  The  firmament  and  the  mir 
ror  that  holds  it  are  like  a  benediction  to  jaded 
nerves  and  hearts  of  care.  We  rejoice  in  a 
sympathy  so  perfect,  when  the  curling  wave 
lets  run  into  soft  reconciliation  with  the  sands, 
and  the  vapors  fold  all  with  one  embrace  as 


276  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

they  move  in  their  pomp  of  gold,  in  raiment 
of  crimson  and  purple.  Fiery  headlands  catch 
a  deeper  glow  where  the  sun  descends  upon 
them ;  the  sands  of  yonder  bar,  on  which  the 
roller  thrashes,  have  grown  auriferous.  So 
has  the  splendor  taken  that  sail  slanting  yon 
der  toward  the  horizon.  There  is  a  cheerful, 
auspicious,  welcoming  smile  along  all  the  far 
away  islands, — those  dreamy  shores  where, 
perhaps,  the  sea-maidens  throw  above  the  wave 
their  snowy  necks,  and  leap  and  frolic  till  you 
catch  the  twinkling  of  their  feet  beneath.  The 
surfy  seas  that  run  up  on  yonder  near-hand 
promontory,  we  fancy  a  succession  of  white- 
maned  horses  swimming  ashore.  With  a 
merry-go-lucky  twinkle,  a  circling  cloud  of 
sand-pipers  yonder  are  weaving  their  aerial 
web  of  beauty.  Who  would  ask  for  blither 
sport  than  to  watch  them,  with  his  gun  for 
gotten,  and  the  joy  of  their  innocent  pleasure 
in  his  heart?  Here  the  crow  and  the  gull 
neighbor,  the  fisherman  has  built  his  cottage, 
and  earth  and  sea  are  mothers,  who  watch  con 
jointly  over  their  own.  A  little  bareheaded 
girl,  with  shiny  hair,  runs  yonder  on  the  beach, 
and  gathers  the  homely  shells,  which  only 
children's  and  poets'  eyes  can  see  to  be  beau- 


Wave-Songs.  277 

tiful.  How  like  childhood  these  bewitching 
movements  of  the  sea,  with  all  its  soft,  reas 
suring  voices !  But  there  is  a  fascination  in 
the  great  creature,  whether  of  horror  or  of 
loveliness ! 

III. 

With  the  briny  breathing  of  the  "wrinkled 
sea,"  that  "crawls"  beneath  this  cliff,  with  the 
soft  shadows  and  changing  lights  of  evening, 
come  the  poetic  meanings  and  remembrances 
of  this  mighty  being  spread  "great  and  wide" 
before  me.  I  have  exulted  with  its  praisers. 
The  stormy  shade  of  Byron  has  been  here, 
with  his — "I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !"  Ros- 
setti,  with  his  mystical  refinement  of  sentiment, 
has  whispered  in  mind,  with  the  low  cadence 
of  the  wave : 

"Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end.     .    .     . 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee." 


278  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

I  think,  too,  of  one  most  winsome  child  of 
Apollo,  whose  eyes  of  wonder  dwelt  on  nature, 
as  on  a  great  silver  fining-pot,  till  he  saw 
there  dawning  the  clear  face  of  Beauty ;  who 
painted  pictures  such  as  I  can  see  while  I  lie 
here,  couched  among  laurel,  fern,  and  juniper, 
still  gazing  seaward : 

"Old  Ocean  rolls  a  lengthened  wave  to  shore, 
Down  whose  green  back  the  short-lived  foam  all 

hoar 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence." 

And  I  have  watched,  in  trance,  with  him, 
and  with  that  "lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the 
night," 

"The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores." 

From  the  time  when  he  sang  whose  soul 
is  deep  and  strong  and  resonant  as  Ocean,  full 
of  its  own  melody — "the  Ionian  father"  of  all 
the  poets — this  moving  abode  of  things  beauti 
ful  and  terrible  has  been  to  them  an  unceasing 
inspiration.  But,  as  says  William  E.  Henley: 
"The  ocean  as  confidant,  a  Laertes  that  can 
neither  avoid  his  Hamlets  nor  bid  them  hold 
their  peace,  is  a  modern  invention.  [And  shall 


Wave-Songs.  279 

we  believe  him?]  Byron  and  Shelley  discov 
ered  it ;  Heine  took  it  into  his  confidence,  and 
told  it  the  story  of  his  loves ;  Wordsworth  made 
it  a  moral  influence ;  Browning  loved  it  in  his 
way,  but  his  way  was  not  often' the  poet's; 
to  Matthew  Arnold  it  was  the  voice  of  destiny, 
and  its  message  was  a  message  of  despair; 
Hugo  conferred  with  it  as  with  a  humble 
friend,  and  uttered  such  lofty  things  over  it 
as  are  rarely  heard  upon  the  lips  of  man. 
.  .  .  Lord  Tennyson  listens  and  looks 
until  it  strikes  him  out  an  undying  note  of 
passion,  or  yearning,  or  regret : 

"  'Sunset  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  me.' 

Mr.  Swinburne  maddens  with  the  wind  and 
the  sounds  and  the  scent  of  it  until  there  passes 
into  his  verse  a  something  of  its  vastness  and 
its  vehemency,  the  rapture  of  its  inspiration, 
the  palpitating,  many-twinkling  miracle  of  its 
light;  Mrs.  William  Morris  has  been  taken 
with  the  manner  of  its  melancholy ;  while  to 
Whitman  it  has  been  'the  great  Camerado' 
indeed,  for  it  gave  him  that  song  of  the  brown 
bird  bereft  of  its  mate,  in  whose  absence  the 
half  of  him  had  not  been  told  to  us.  But  to 


280  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Longfellow,  alone,  was  it  given  to  see  that 
stately  galley  which  Count  Arnoldos  saw ;  his 
only  to  hear  the  steersman  singing  that  wild 
and  wondrous  song,  which  none  that  hears  it 
can  resist,  and  none  that  has  heard  it  may  for 
get.  .  .  .  To  him  the  sea  is  a  place  of 
mariners  and  ships.  In  his  verse  the  rigging 
creaks,  the  white  sail  fills  and  cackles,  there 
are  blown  smells  of  pine  and  hemp  and  tar; 
you  catch  the  home-wind  on  your  cheeks ;  and 
old  shipmen,  their  eyeballs  white  in  their 
bronzed  faces,  with  silver  rings  and  gaudy 
handkerchiefs,  come  in  and  tell  you  moving 
stories  of  the  immemorial,  incommunicable 
deep.  He  abides  in  a  port;  he  goes  down  to 
the  docks,  and  loiters  among  the  galiots  and 
brigantines ;  he  hears  the  melancholy  song 
of  the  chanty-men ;  he  sees  the  chips  flying 
under  the  shipwright's  adz,  he  smells  the 
pitch  that  smokes  and  bubbles  in  the  caldron. 
And  straightway  he  falls  to  singing  his  varia 
tions  on  the  ballad  of  Count  Arnoldos;  and 
the  world  listens,  for  its  heart  beats  in  his 
song." 

It  was  his  passion,  surely,  who  made  us  see, 
as  if  of  yesterday,  the  voyaging  Ulysses ;  who 
caused  our  tears  over  the  "repulsed,"  the 


Wave-Songs.  281 

"sacred  sire,"  whose  woe  was  solaced,  and 
whose  heart  was  quieted  by  the  "much-sound 
ing  sea,"  and  without  thought  of  whom  we 
can  not  hear  its  ''audible  chime."  It  was  his 
who  lit  to  our  fancy's  eye  the  rippling  pearl- 
fires — the  "laughter  of  innumerable  waves" — 
the  "many-twinkling  smile  of  ocean."  He  was 
no  alien  from  its  waves,  who  heard  that  heav 
ing  bell, 

"Over  some  wide-watered  shore 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar;" 

and  who  scented  the  perfumed  forests  of 
Araby,  that  salute  the  voyager  "beyond  the 
cape"  with  their  spicy  odors,  while — 

"Well  pleased  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a 

lea.gue 
Cheer'd  with  the  grateful  smell,  old  Ocean  smiles." 

Even  with  the  gusto  of  earlier  bards  will 
Browning  sing, — 

"Over  the  seas  our  galleys  went;" 

and  Tennyson,  in  the  very  spirit  of  the  ancient 
Greek,  puts  forth  his  prow  of  song : 

"There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.     .     .     . 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks ; 


282  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  long  day  wanes ;  the  slow  moon  climbs ;  the 

deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.   Come,  my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  the  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die." 


•  IV. 


Winter  darkens  and  makes  dread  the  sea; 
the  pallor  of  her  snows  makes  fearful  con 
trast  with  its  sable  waters.  The  icy  ledges, 
licked  by  the  spume  of  Kraken  waves,  and 
leaped  upon  by  the  pale  horses  of  death  and 
shipwreck,  are  terrific  to  the  heart  of  the  mari 
ner.  In  the  confusion  of  winds  and  waves 
the  mightiest  ships  go  down.  But  the  earliest 
poets  have  rejoiced  when  the  beautiful  feet 
of  the  virgin  spring  come  treading  upon  the 
shore.  The  Latin  lyrist,  looking  out  from 
Baiae  or  Sorrento,  may  rejoice:  "Now  the 
bitter  reign  of  winter  is  over ;  spring  returns ; 
softly  upon  us  blows  the  Favonian  wind.  Now 
gleeful  mariners  draw  down  their  dry  keels 
to  the  sea ;  in  the  fields  the  lowing  herds  make 


Wave-Songs.  283 

known  their  joy."  The  same  delight  breaks 
from  the  lips  of  the  Greeks  in  the  old  Anthol 
ogy  ;  and,  uttered  with  exquisite  grace  and 
feeling  by  bards  so  long  vanished  from  the 
earth,  we  know  the  thrill  that  shook  their 
hearts  with  the  coming  of  the  swallow,  or  the 
opening  song,  in  some  Attic  vale  of  the  newly- 
arrived  nightingale.  "Now,  at  her  fruitful 
birth-tide,  the  fair,  green  field  flowers  out  in 
blowing  roses ;  now  on  the  boughs  of  the  col 
onnaded  cypresses  the  cicala,  mad  with  music, 
lulls  the  binder  of  sheaves ;  and  the  careful 
mother-swallow,  having  finished  houses  under 
the  eaves,  gives  harborage  to  her  brood  in  the 
mud-plastered  cells ;  and  the  sea  slumbers,  with 
zephyr-wooing  calm  spread  clear  over  the 
broad  ship-tracks,  not  breaking  in  squalls  on 
the  stern-posts,  not  vomiting  foam  upon  the 
beaches.  O,  sailor,  burn  by  the  altars  the  glit 
tering  round  of  a  mullet,  or  a  cuttle-fish,  or  a 
vocal  scarus,  to  Priapus,  ruler  of  ocean  and 
giver  of  anchorage ;  and  so  go  fearlessly  on 
thy  seafaring  to  the  bounds  of  the  Ionian  Sea." 
Will  it  be  with  any  rites  like  the  ones  the  poet 
recommends  our  fishermen  at  morning,  sailing 
out  of  Long  Cove  to  cast  their  lines  for  cod? 


284  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

I  trow  not ;  we  are  otherwise  religious,  or  su 
perstitious,  but  the  charms  of  sea  and  shore, 
and  of  returning  spring,  are  the  same  to  us. 
So  we  sing  the  song  was  sung  of  old :  "Me, 
Pan,  the  fisherman,  placed  upon  this  holy  cliff, 
— Pan  of  the  seashore,  the  watcher  here  over 
the  fair  anchorages  of  the  harbor;  and  I  take 
care  now  of  the  baskets  and  of  the  trawlers 
off  this  shore.  But  sail,  thou,  by,  O,  stranger, 
and  in  requital  of  this  good  service  of  theirs,  I 
will  send  behind  thee  a  gentle  south  wind." 


V. 

"I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports  were  lonely."  — Keats. 

I,  too,  love  the  sight,  the  sound,  of  the 
"green-girdled  mother,"  and,  coming  near  her 
from  my  inland  home,  like  the  ancients  on  their 
approach,  I  also  feel  my  heart  leaping  up 
within  me,  and  am  fain  to  cry :  "Thalassa ! 
Thalassa !  All  hail  to  thee,  thou  eternal !  all 
hail  to  thee !  A  thousand  times  from  my  jubi 
lant  heart  I  greet  thee!"  For,  though  I  was 
not  born  upon  her  bosom,  I  have  been  with 
the  mighty  mother  from  my  childhood. 


Wave-Songs.  285 

"All  my  boyhood,  from  far  vernal 
Bournes  of  being,  came  to  me 
Dreamlike,  plangent,  and  eternal 
Memories  of  the  plunging  sea." 

And  so,  with  Carman,  I  can  say: 

"All  my  heart  is  in  its  verges, 
And  the  sea-wind  is  my  home." 

I  am  a  sailor's  son,  and  am  brother  of  one 
who  met  a  sailor's  common  fate.  I  have 
dreamed  and  brooded  over  sea's  charms  and 
mysteries  so  long  it  has  become  like  an  old, 
old  story  to  hear  the  murmur  of  its  waves. 
Now  it  has  attracted,  and  now  revolted,  me. 
I  have  exulted  again  and  again,  in  the  very 
spirit  of  Byron's  apostrophe,  and  in  the  pas 
sion  of  the  young  Renfrew  bard  ;*  for  my  love 
has  been  like  theirs,  and  though  my  home  has 
been  upon  the  shore,  and  among  the  hills, 
where  I  have  been  too  long  confined,  yet  has 
my  fancy  gone  abroad  over  the  waves,  and 
my  ear  was  early  attuned  to  their  musical 
speech.  "Like  the  language  of  home,  their 
accents  whisper  to  me.  Like  the  dreams  of 
my  childhood,  I  see  the  sun's  glimmer  over 
the  billowy  realm  of  waves,  and  they  repeat 
to  me  anew  olden  memories. "f 

*  Robert  Pollok.  t  Heine. 


286  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 


VI. 


The  deep-souled  man,  to  whom  the  sea  is  a 
familiar,  looks  for  it,  longs  for  it,  loves  it.  He 
delights  to  watch  and  note 

"Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray." 

Delightful  to  his  ear,  amid  "continuous  roars," 
the 

"Sea-mew's  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky." 

The  civilized  man,  knowing,  sentient,  high- 
keyed,  desires  the  ocean  breaking  at  his  feet; 
but  to  the  savage,  estranged,  barbaric,  it  may 
be  an  object  of  terror. 

How  the  Greeks,  in  the  army — of  that  "Ten 
Thousand"  Xenophon  tells  us  about — exulted 
when,  to  their  eyes,  "the  many-twinkling  smile 
of  ocean/'  that  had  cheered  their  childhood, 
was  restored  !  Yet  imagine  the  dismay — a  dis 
may  as  genuine  and  natural  as  this  delight — 
with  which  the  barbaric  mind  must  survey  so 
majestic  an  object,  never  seen  before. 

Out  from  the  deep  on  deep  of  an  African 
forest  came  the  dark-faced  men,  who  bore  the 


Wave-Songs.  287 

half-unconscious  Livingstone,  and  gazed  with 
mingled  awe  and  terror  on  that  unknown  to 
them,  we  call  the  sea.  They  knelt  or  fell  pros 
trate  in  their  alarm  before  their  master,  and, 
looking  toward  what  must  have  seemed  a 
dreadful  deity,  exclaimed :  "The  world  says, 
'I  am  finished;  there  is  no  more  of  me!' '' 


VII. 

"The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea." 

But  did  ever  mountains  look  on  men  more 
worthy  of  them  ?  And  did  ever  the  sea  wel 
come  to  her  bosom  the  sons  of  a  nobler  race 
than  they  who,  "on  that  morn  to  distant  glory 
dear,"  devoted  themselves  to  death  for  the  sake 
of  freedom,  and  for  the  deliverance  of  that 
dear  land  they  loved,  and  which  was  worthy 
of  their  love  ?  The  scene  is  imperishable  from 
history  and  song.  Still  we  behold — 

"The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear; 
Mountains  above,  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear." 


288  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  elements  themselves  shall  bear  witness 
to  noble  men.  We  call  a  few  by  name — Mil- 
tiades — Leonidas — and  that  majestic  poet,  who 
"fought  at  Marathon,"* — but  the  universe  is 
conscious  of  them  all.  The  pines  and  the 
winds  of  the  mountains  that  saw  them  shall 
proudly  whisper  their  names  and  their  lineage ; 
and  the  sea  that  waited  as  their  faithful  ally, 
shall  lift  up  its  voice  to  proclaim  that  they 
were  heroes. 

"We  crave  not  a  memorial  stone 
For  those  who  fell  at  Marathon. 
Their  fame  with  every  breeze  is  blent; 
The  mountains  are  their  monument, 
And  the  low  plaining  of  the  sea 
Their  everlasting  threnody." 


VIII. 

Come  downward  to  the  shore,  and  yet  thou 
shalt  travel  in  the  train  of  Sorrow ;  she  em 
barks,  and  takes  her  way  seaward,  and  Grief 
walks  upon  the  swelling  waves,  as  did  he  who 
is  her  Consoler.  The  waves  and  the  winds 
unite  in  lamentation,  and  the  concord  of  break 
ing  billows  around  the  prow  at  night  brings 

*.<32schylus. 


Wave-Songs.  289 

the  communion  of  sadness  to  many  a  waking 
soul.  A  tempest  joins  in  the  lonely  proces 
sion — even  its  diapason  is  in  fitting  unison ; 
clouds  and  storms,  more  than  tranquil,  and 
sunny  skies,  may  befit  funeral  seasons,  and 
April  snows  may  be  the  hopeful  covering  of  a 
grave. 

IX. 

They  sat  upon  the  deck,  looking  behind 
them,  or  forward,  with  wistful  eyes,  while  the 
ship  steamed  outward  from  the  harbor,  past 
bell-buoy,  lighthouse,  and  the  last  dark  island, 
into  the  open  sea.  Brothers,  companions,  en 
voys  to  the  frontier  of  the  land  whence  no 
traveler  returns,  ministrants  at  the  altar  of 
filial  duty  and  affection,  in  the  last  sorrowful 
rite  and  office.  They  set  themselves  to  breast 
a  great  and  sharp  wind  blowing  from  a  sea 
they  had  yet  to  cross.  In  the  hold  beneath 
them  rested  a  sacred  ark,  containing  relics 
precious  as  those  that,  with  lamentation,  Joseph 
bore  out  of  Egypt,  a  casket  upon  which  was 
written  the  hallowed  name  of  Mother.  Folded 
forever  were  the  hands  that  had  caressed, 
the  arms  that  had  enfolded  them ;  closed  for- 
19 


290  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ever  the  eyes  that  had  looked  upon  them  with 
a  kindness  that  is  not  of  earth ;  cold  and  silent 
the  lips  that  had  spoken  to  them  in  the  lan 
guage  of  solicitude  and  tenderness.  To  her 
last  resting-place  they  bore  all  that  now  re 
mained  of  her  they  loved  and  revered.  In  life 
or  in  death  "a  mother  is  a  mother  still,"  the 
holiest  gift  that  a  generous  God  bestows — save 
that  one  "unspeakable  Gift,"  for  which  we 
should  all  adore  him. 

Silent  they  sat,  and  watched  the  evening's 
dying  splendor.    As  often  before,  they 

"Saw  the  sun  retire 
And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night." 

The  city  they  had  left  had  melted  into  a  golden 
mist ;  night  came  down  gradually  with  her 
dusky  embraces,  and  the  sea  rose  up  to  receive 
them.  They  were  traveling  on  into  the  midst 
of  the  giant  storm,  that  had  hung  its  gonfalons 
of  peril  over  them  before  the  "ocean  lane  of 
fire"  had  faded  from  the  deep ;  and  from  mid 
night  until  morning  their  ship  plunged  on, 
sounding  a  knell  and  blindly  feeling  a  "dim 
and  perilous  way."  Then  they  wondered  if  the 
narrow  cell  in  which  they  vainly  sought  to 
sleep,  wet  with  spray  and  dripping  rain,  was 


Wave-Songs.  291 

destined  to  become  their  tomb;  and  whether 
the  sweet  manes,  they  would  have  left  beside 
that  other  hallowed  dust  on  the  hillside,  should 
be  reft  from  its  last  cradle  by  ocean  monsters, 
and 

"Toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells." 

But,  no !  there  came  the  dawning,  and  there 
loomed  the  hither  shore,  bleak  with  the  sudden 
snows  of  a  returning  winter.  Never  more 
filled  with  gloom  seemed  sky  and  wave ;  never 
more  forbidding  and  inhospitable  seemed  that 
dear  Acadian  shore.  But  grateful  had  they 
felt  had  the  coast  been  like  Greenland  or  Un- 
alaska :  after  all  it  was  the  margin  of  their  own 
land ;  before  them  was  the  iron  road  into  that 
country  soon  to  be  filled  again  with  the  scent 
of  apple-blossoms ;  the  dear  mother's  dust 
should  repose  safely  in  the  destined  place,  and 
they,  delivered  from  the  perils  of  the  deep, 
might  drop  a  filial  tear  at  the  reading  of  the 
burial  service. 

.  .  .  Farewell,  thou  good  mother!  who 
didst  dwell  among  thy  children,  with  such  late 
joy  of  life,  amid  all  thy  sorrows ;  with  the  reed 
of  thy  life  broken  before  it  was  bruised  in  all 
its  parts.  We  remember  thy  frame  unbent,  thy 


292  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

mind  undimmed,  thy  heart  un jaded.  Thou 
leavest  the  spell  of  gentleness  and  bravery  be 
hind  thee.  Thy  tomb,  as  thy  home  was  long 
since,  be  fragrant  of  love.  Thou  art  season 
ably  ushered  to  thy  peaceful  chamber  in  that 
abode  of  rest.  We  did  not  watch  thy  mourn 
ful  decaying — an  ill  that  never  came  to  thee. 
We  rejoice  that  from  this  region  of  plaints  and 
agonies — greatly  as  we  miss  thee — thou  art  so 
quietly  and  sweetly  withdrawn. 

"Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay, — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the 

shore, 

'Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar;' 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd, — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sends  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
But,  O,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me." 


Wave-Songs.  293 

X. 

"The  sea !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea !" 

There  is  indeed  a  wideness  like  the  love  of 
the  Infinite!  But  there  is  not  room  on  my 
scant  page  for  a  record  of  all  its  memories. 
Over  its  surf  and  curling  waves,  along  the  edge 
of  his  isle  Ariel  glides;  and  there  Prospero  is 
magician,  seer,  and  lord.  There  ^Eneas  goes 
adventuring,  as  well  as  the  restless  Ulysses; 
there  go  the  Argonauts,  and  there  Arion — 
fortunate  musician ! — sits  on  the  back  of  his 
dolphin.  There  into  the  blackness  of  midnight 
waters  falls  Cowper's  poor  "Castaway,"  from 
Anson's  flying  ship;  and  there 

"At  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep;" 

while  the  Palemons  and  Alberts  of  such  ship 
wrecks  as  that  of  Falconer  will  haunt  the  surfy 
rocks  on  alien  coasts  forever.  There  the  Bruce 
goes  sailing  about  Staffa  and  the  margins  of 
Lorn ;  and  there  Enoch  Arden  sits  lonely  as 
Selkirk,  on  his  South  Pacific  isle,  and  hears 

"The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean  fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef." 


294  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

XI. 

"In  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, — 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

— Wordsworth. 

''Religious,  holy  sea." 

— Pollok. 

O  them  great  and  wide  sea !  Mine  eye  is 
never  sated  with  gazing  upon  thee ;  mine  ear 
is  never  wearied  with  thy  music.  Thou  purg- 
est  my  thought,  and  Greatest  my  dreams  anew  : 
thou  dost  exalt  my  spirit  to  the  Infinite  and 
Invisible,  whose  creature  thou  art !  Bid  the 
babbling  world  to  go  far  from  me,  and  bring 
around  me  the  Ancients  of  Days ;  tell  me  of 
the  greatness  of  Being!  Sing  thy  song  of 
Eternity !  Smite  thy  cymbal  waves  afar ;  shout 
thy  raptures,  and  chant  thy  dirges !  Inter 
preter  of  our  hearts ;  murmurer  of  love  and  of 
sorrow ;  winding-sheet  of  our  dead ;  beautiful 
reflector  of  the  heavens ;  speak  to  us  still  in 
the  deepest  language  of  our  souls !  Our  eyes 
shall  grow  dim,  and  our  ears  dull ;  the  mortal 
senses  thou  canst  charm  shall  be  obliterated ; 


Wave-Songs.  295 

but  the  world  shall  feel  the  washing  of  thy 
waves,  shall  "hear  thy  mighty  waters  rolling 
evermore!"  Evermore?  Evermore! 

".     .     .     Until  shall  ring 
That  Voice  above  thy  vast  abyss." 

For  thou,  majestic  and  mysterious  thing!  art 
transient,  too ;  and  at  the  bidding  of  Him — 
who  casteth  out  over  thee  the  measuring-rod 
of  his  own  eternity  and  discovereth  thine  end, 
who  did  summon  out  of  the  past  thy  flowing 
tides, — thou  shalt  retire  and  uncover  thy  gulfs 
and  abysses ;  dissolved  into  vapor  by  the  fierce 
breath  of  universal  fire,  "there  shall  be  no  more 
sea !" 

XII. 

ALONG  SHORE. 

(AN  EPISTLE. )* 


Once  more,  in  amicable  shade  reposed, 

I  greet  you,  brothers,  from  this  realm  of  song; 

Content  that  Labor's  clangorous  gate  has  closed, 
And  ope'd  the  port  of  Rest,  delay'd  so  long. 

Here  (where  that  mighty  songsmith,  the  hoar  Sea, 
Beats  on  his  sounding  anvil  by  the  shore, 


1  To  Charles  H.  Collins  and  Henry  W.  Hope,  Paint,  Ohio. 


296  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

And  wind  and  wave,  in  sweet  fraternity, 

Make  the  same  music  that  I  heard  of  yore), 
I  dream  again  of  your  far  inland  vale, 

With  all  its  waters  shining  cliff-inbound ; 
I  set  your  viney  rocks, — the  heavens  they  scale, 

While  to  your  pipes'  clear  note  their  caves  resound. 
There  you,  to  whom  the  frequent  thought  will  fly, 

Make  in  such  pleasaunce  your  accustom'd  cheer : 
For  you  boon  Nature,  and  the  open  sky — 

Ancient  companions,  that  await  me  here. 

ii. 

This  oak-crown'd  hill  o'erlooks  the  sheeny  brine, 

The  site  of  summer  homes,  whence  I  behold 
Below,  in  thund'rous  throes  of  life  divine, 

That  restless,  glorious  creature,  never  old ! 
A  little  nest  within  the  hill  there  is 

Circled  with  piney  groves,  whence  voices  ring 
Of  children,  sporting  in  Arcadian  bliss, 

Where  tense  lutes  tremble  and  glad  maidens  sing. 
Below,  a  furzy  path  skirts  the  grim  walls 

Swept  by  the  shrewd  salt  gale  :  there  craggy  knees 
Whiten,  where  oft  the  foamy  billow  falls 

With  rhythmic  roll  and  thunder  of  the  seas. 
There  lies  outstretch'd  the  monstrous  fire-fused  stone 

O'er   which   the   spray   is   flung,   the   green   wave 

roll'd ; 
Like  pediment  and  plinth  and  column  prone, 

Mold'ring  upon  the  waste  of  Tadmor  old. 
Beyond,  the  scatter'd  isles,  the  coast-lights,  stand ; 

The  tide-heaved  bell,  that  tolls  to  make  aware 
Of  threat'ning  reefs  and  breakers  near  the  land, 

By  night  the  hapless  mariner's  despair. 


Wave-Songs.  297 

ni. 

Old  Ocean!     Nay;  'tis  ocean,  ever  young! 

Horror  and  beauty  written  in  his  face ! 
Ha !  now  I  watch  yon  "snaky  wave  upflung" 

To  clasp  me  in  its  treacherous  embrace ! 
Gorgon !  with  head  uplift  and  "hissing  tongue," 
And  foamy  fire  upon  thy  awful  mane ! 
Of  mine — of  mine,  how  many  hast  thou  slain? 

Thou  hast  the  tender  maiden,  and  the  brave 
Adventurous  boy,  from  gentle  bosom  sprung; 

And  thou  hast  lost  them  in  thy  "wandering  grave." 
Careless  art  thou  of  woman's  peerless  bloom, 

Or  the  high  hope  of  manhood,  fall'n  so  low: 
Yet,  Earth  knows  Death,  and  yields  th'  untimely 
tomb  : 

We  can  not  blame  thee,  Sea,  that  thou  doest  so ! 

IV. 

The  fern,  the  laurel,  and  sweet-scented  bay 

Neighbor  the  rugged  rock  and  sounding  surge; 
The  spreading  juniper,  with  green  o'erlay, 

Hangs  its  pale  berries  on  the  granite  verge. 
Beneath,  the  weed,  whose  tangled  fibers  tell 

Of  some  inviolate  deep-sea  shrine,  I  see ; 
There  lies  the  faultless,  "secret  chamber'd  shell," 

Whose  sound  is  ocean's  vast  epitome ; — 
The  utterance  of  that  voice  still  moveth  so 

The  soul  of  him  who  listens ;  the  unspent 
Majestic  movement,  grand,  and  strong,  and  slow; 

Infinity,  with  passion  eloquent ! 


298  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 


By  day  the  sun,  by  night  the  moon,  doth  shine, 

And  lay  their  beams  auriferous  from  this  shore 
Across  "great  twinkling  wastes."    O'er  gem-lit  brine 

Fly  the  white  gulls,  that  "wheel,  and  swerve,"  and 

soar, 
Moving  "in  unanimity  divine," 

With  necks  down-droop'd  and  bent  upon  the  deep. 
I  watch  their  undulations  serpentine, — 

Like  dreaming  creatures  flying  in  their  sleep. 
Now,  with  their  "wondrous  consentaneous  curve," 

They  flash  afar,  in  "sudden  silver  sheen ;" 
Beyond  the  isles  and  headlands  now  they  swerve — 

A  beauteous  vision,  seen,  and  now  unseen. 

VI. 

O  sacred  shore !    Retirement's  favorite  haunt, 

When  the  hot  city  sends  its  votary  forth, 
To  lie  where  peace  and  dream  have  use  and  wont ; 

Where  of  heart's  ease  we  learn  once  more  the 

worth. 
The  rustle  of  soft  leaves ;  the  gentle  sigh 

Of  spirits  lodged  in  turrets  of  the  firs; 
Blackbird  and  crow,  in  harsh  garrulity, 

Writh  sweeter  airs  of  piney  choristers. 
To  lie  in  "world-forgotten  coves,"  how  sweet ! 

"Lapt  in  the  magic  of  some  old  sea-dream," 
While  rock  and  breaker  with  dull  thunder  meet, 

And  up  the  white-ridged  sand  the  blue  waves 
cream : 


Wave-Songs.  299 

To  clasp  the  "great,  sweet  mother,"  and  drink  deep 

The  salt  airs  shivering  off  the  milk-white  foam ; 
Up  rocky  stairways  of  the  cliff  to  creep, 

And  gaze  out  o'er  wild  Fancy's  boundless  home ; 
Down  sunless  clefts  toward  caverns  dim  to  peep, 

Where  the  wave  sucks  and  gurgles,  where  repose 
The  slimy  weeds,  and  where  the  limpets  sleep, 

And  winds  are  shrill  and  damp,  when  bleak  the 
tempest  blows. 

VII. 

To  muse  o'er  sunken  chambers  of  the  deep, 

Paven  with  sand  and  shell  and  gleaming  gold : 
Those  hush'd  "recesses  of  primeval  sleep" 

Some  "immemorial  spell"  doth  tranced  hold : 
To  watch  yon  "granite  fangs  eternally 
Rending  the  blanch'd  lips  of  the  wrathful  sea  ;"- 
The  high,  courageous  wave,  still  backward  roll'd ; 

"The  breaker,  clutching  land,"  then  outward 

hurl'd— 
Like  ruin'd  angels,  sky-attempting,  still — 

"Back  on  its  own  tempest-tormented  world." 
O  deep  delight !  the  fresh'ning  wave  to  share ! 

"The  surges'  mountainous  upthunderings  !" 
Of  Nature's  cleansing-house  the  sweetness  rare 
Is  mine ;  "the  lovely,  blithe,  swift,  debonair ; 

The  joy,  the  glorious  energy,  of  things !" 
This  is  "Earth's  ecstasy  made  visible!" 

This  is  the  passion  that  the  Greek  bards  knew ! 
The  universal  pulse,  the  cosmic  thrill, 

The  world-old  rapture,  ever  fresh  and  new ! 


300  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

VIII. 

So,  friends  of  mine,  versed  in  such  lovely  lore; 

Seeing,  as  if  with  your  illumined  eyes, 
Hearing  for  you  the  tumbling  breaker's  roar, 

Where  screaming  gulls  in  snowy  clouds  arise ; 
I  send  you  salutation  evermore ! 

I — watching  the  sun-litten,  slanted  sail, 
And  the  long  billow  curving  to  the  shore, — 

Greet  you,  reposing  in  your  haunted  vale. 
Nature  and  human  hearts  are  one,  though  far 

The  scenes  be  sunder'd  where  her  votaries  lie ; 
Softly  on  each  alike  look  sun  and  star, 

For  o'er  us  broods  the  same  all-fostering  sky. 
— Arthur  J.  Loc^hart  ("Pastor  Felix"). 


Autumnal  J$ote& 


i. 


The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past;  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  luster  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been." 

—Shelley. 

"Leaf  by  golden  leaf 
Crumbles  the  gorgeous  year." 

— William  Watson. 

I  AWOKE  this  morning,  and  autumn's  most 
delicate  wraith  was  already  abroad.  She  is 
revealing  herself  by  momentary,  uncertain 
glimpses,  and,  here  and  there,  she  is  beginning 
to  lay 

"A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves." 

I  think  how  soon  she  will  be  apparent  in  all 
her  dominion  of  splendor.  In  these  woods  of 
Maine  the  silver  birch  will  soon  be  shaking 
out  all  her  light  golden  tresses,  and  the  blush- 
301 


3O2  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ful  gleam  of  the  blood-red  maple  will  be  seen 
from  the  midst  of  her  piney  compeers.  Every 
where  in  this  northern  hemisphere  nature  will 
soon  show  her  autumnal  suit ;  Katahdin  will 
stand  in  his  September  glory,  with  all  the  arms 
of  the  Penobscot  \vound  around  him,  and  all  the 
sheeny  lakes  and  the  abounding  forests  known 
to  the  camper  and  sportsman.  Over  Wini- 
pisiogee  and  St.  George,  and  on  the  margin 
of  Champlain,  it  will  be  autumn ;  and  about 
Sunnyside  and  Mount  Vernon.  Over  that 
great  blue  expanse, — 

"Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea, — " 

the  autumnal  sprite  will  be  felt  and  visible. 
Yes,  and  far  beyond !  That  land  from  which 
our  fathers  came  will  soon  share  the  lustrous 
jewel  of  ripeness  with  us.  Soon  by  Rydal 
Mount,  where  Wordsworth  walked,  muttering 
eternal  verse,  the  yellow  leaves  will  be  fall 
ing, — golden  patines  from  his  favorite  groves. 
The  ghost  of  Scott  may  see  them,  what  time 
the  sun 

"Flames  o'er  the  hill  from  Ettrick  shore," 

when  it  wanders  through  Dryburgh,  where  he 
lies  entombed.  They  will  quiver  in  the  morn 
ing  light,  all  dewy,  about  the  homes  and 


Autumnal  Notes.  303 

haunts  of  Burns,  and  all  along  the  "banks  and 
braes  of  Bonnie  Boon."  But  England,  with 
all  her  wealth  of  form  and  color,  and  with  all 
her  classic  memories,  will  not  show,  though 
you  travel  from  Hawthornden  to  Westminster, 
anything  like  the  varied  beauties  of  our  declin 
ing  year.  The  season  has  a  ripe,  subdued,  and 
mellow  close,  but  not  a  majestic  brilliancy,  as 
on  these  shores.  See !  I  will  paint  you  a  pic 
ture, — a  fertile  Midland  scene,  like  those 
George  Eliot  delighted  in,  and  drew  so  finely. 
Color  it  shall  not  lack,  but  the  deeper  tints  are 
mostly  brown  and  russet.  Yet  the  scene  is 
homelike  and  dear,  and,  through  the  eyes  that 
saw  and  the  hand  that  drew  "Middlemarch," 
you  seem  to  have  lived  there.  Look  at  the 
fields,  with  their  golden  spikes  of  stubble ! 
There  run  the  somber-hued  hedges  in  line  be 
tween  these  sunny  squares.  Survey  the  fat 
fields,  the  upturned  umber  earth,  rich  with  cen 
turies  of  dressing,  where  late  the  plow  has 
been  run ; — how  they  differ  from  our  New 
England  fields  and  the  prairies  of  the  West! 
And  the  meadows  that  stretch  away,  fading  to 
an  olive-green, — look  at  them !  There  rise  the 
red-tiled  roofs  of  cottages,  with  their  white 
walls,  and  the  bluish  smoke,  that  so  please  the 


304  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

eye,  rising  amid  the  trees.  Now  the  oaks  are 
changing;  the  beeches  and  poplars  are  smitten 
with  gold,  but  a  gold  tawnier  than  ours.  This 
is  England — reserved,  subdued,  substantial ; 
this  is  the  rural  splendor  Thomson  painted : 

"The  fading  many-colored  woods, 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round, 
Imbrown ;  a  crowded  umbrage  dark  and  dun, 
Of  every  hue  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark." 

This  certainly  is  no  proper  description  of  an 
autumnal  forest  in  America,  where  over  every 
hill  and  vale  the  tints  glow  like  sunset  clouds. 
Bryant,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  and  their  kin, 
can  show  us  in  words  this  "livery  of  the  sky." 
Burns  gives  us  the  lighter  tints  on  Scottish 
hills  of  autumnal  foliage,  in  some  of  his  inci 
dental  passages.  Often,  with  enchanted  vision, 
would  he  mark  "the  sun's  departing  beam  look 
on  the  fading  yellow  woods." 

II. 

There  is  pure  pleasure  for  him  who  will  now 
walk  in  the  woods  when  this  hectic  flush  is  on 
the  cheek  of  nature.  Nay,  I  almost  repudiate 
that  epithet !  In  a  certain  sense  it  may  be  used 


Autumnal  Notes.  305 

poetically,  but  it  is  not  strictly  true.  The  ripen 
ing  of  the  pear  and  peach  is  hardly  hectic,  nor 
is  that  of  the  leaf,  even  in  appearance,  till  the 
frost  has  taken  it.  But  we  will  allow  that  fig 
ment  of  description,  if  you  choose,  to  the  leaf 
of  the  maple.  This  is  the  time  for  picnics  in 
the  grove,  and  this  is  the  season  for  sunny 
strolls  in  mid- September.  It  is  good  to  go 
alone;  it  is  sometimes  good  to  have  a  com 
panion;  we  often  find  it  comfortable  to  have 
a  pocket  volume, — the  right  one. 

But  carry  no  gun  with  you,  and  be  chary 
of  hook  and  rod.  Shame  on  him  whose  only 
familiarity  with  the  wild  creatures  of  the 
forest  is  when  he  pursues  and  slays  them.  We 
do  not  object  to  the  hunt  in  poetry  and  ro 
mance,  when  Scott  or  Cooper  will  consent  to 
sound  the  horn ;  but  otherwise  we  have  no 
heart  to  follow  it.  The  light  liver  of  Felix 
knows  little  about  the  matter,  in  fact.  He 
never  met  the  eyes  of  a  doe,  brim  full  of  ap 
pealing  innocence,  with  the  tube  of  malicious 
ness  pointed  from  his  shoulder.  Would  he 
might  take  aim,  instead  of  another;  the  crea 
ture  must  infallibly  escape.  He  would  not 
even  go  fishing  to-day  when  invited;  not  but 
he  would  be  willing  to  share  his  neighbor's 


306  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

pottage.  In  winter  he  has  seated  himself  by 
the  lake-side,  watching  where  lines  were  set 
in  vaults  for  finny  meddlers,  till  the  little  flag 
wrent  up  bespeaking  a  captive  ready  to  surren 
der.  He  also  remembers,  without  poignancy 
of  regret,  how  once  he  harried  the  eels  in 
Whiting  River.  But  in  later  days,  so  far  as  he 
is  concerned,  perch  and  pickerel  may  swim 
unconscious  of  their  safety.  He  was  never  a 
skillful  or  executive  fisher,  deficient  of  art  and 
energy  among  masters  of  the  angle, — void  of 
allurement  to  catchers-on  of  any  sort,  not  hav 
ing  the  business  in  him.  Not  the  less  is  he 
interested  in  all  gentle  fishers,  from  Wynken 
de  Worde's  fair  nun,  and  the  quaint  Izaak,  to 
the  author  of  "Little  Rivers;"  "The  Compleat 
Angler"  being  with  him,  as  it  has  been  with 
many  another  respectable  non-angler,  a  vade 
me  cum.  There  is  a  perfect  understanding  be 
tween  himself  and  all  animated  nature  that  the 
individual  members  thereof  are  to  take  no 
alarm.  The  young  pouters  will  even  come 
and  look  curiously  upon  him,  as  if  to  say, 
"Why  are  you  not  inclined  to  catch  me  ?"  His 
philosophy  is  quite  in  harmony  with  his  con 
stitution  ;  it  is  doubtless  his  defect  that  the 
hunters  and  fishers  go  without  him,  and  have 


Autumnal  Notes.  307 

this  blast  sent  after  them :  "To  hunt  and  to 
catch  fish  is  barbarous ;  our  race  will  yet  look 
with  abhorrence  upon  such  diversions,  as  now 
we  do  upon  the  scalping  of  a  maiden  or  the 
braining  of  an  infant." 


III. 


A  single  pine-tree,  standing  on  a  hill  be 
tween  the  villages  of  Corinth  and  East  Corinth, 
Maine,  and  near  the  road  along  which  I  was 
accustomed  to  pass,  became  to  me  a  point  of 
attraction,  and  a  center  of  musing  during  the 
years  spent  in  that  town, — and  especially  at 
the  autumnal  season.  After  my  removal, — as 
memory  would  go  back  to  my  old  sylvan  com 
panion,  endeared  by  long  association  and  con 
genial  thought, — the  lines  here  introduced 
were  written : 

THE  LONELY  PINE. 

Remote,  upon  the  sunset  shrine 
Of  a  green  hill,  a  lonely  pine 
Beckons  this  hungry  heart  of  mine. 

"Draw  near,"  it  always  seems  to  say, 
Look  thither  whensoe'er  I  may 
From  the  dull  routine  of  my  way. 


308  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"I  hold  for  thee  the  heavens  in  trust ; 
My  priestly  branches  toward  thee  thrust, 
Absolve  thy  fret,  assoil  thy  dust." 

Yet  when  I  come,  it  heeds  not  me ; 
The  stars  amid  the  branches  see 
But  lonely  man  and  lonely  tree, — 

And  lonely  earth,  that  holds  in  thrall 
Her  creatures ;  while  eve  gathers  all 
To  fold  within  her  shadowy  wall. 

In  starry  senate  doth  arise 

The  'lumined  spirit  of  the  skies, 

Walking  with  radiant  ministries. 

But,  sighing  from  its  kindred  wood 
Afar — its  green-robed  brotherhood — 
The  pine-tree  feeds  my  wonted  mood. 

For,  with  its  spell  around  me  thrown, 
Dreaming  of  social  pleasures  flown, 
I  grieve,  yet  joy,  to  be  alone. 

Ye*  in  my  lonely  pine-tree  dwells, 
When  'mid  its  breast  the  soft  wind  swells, 
A  prophet  of  sweet  oracles. 

Like  a  faint  sea  on  far-off  shore, 
With  its  low,  muffled,  elfin  roar, 
It  speaks  one  language  evermore; — 


Autumnal  Notes.  309 

One  language,  unconstrain'd  and  free, 
The  converse  of  the  answering  sea, 
The  old  rune  of  eternity. 

Its  fresh'ning  music  breatheth  sooth 
The  uncorrupted  dream  of  youth, 
Restoreth  Love,  unveileth  Truth. 

It  speaketh  that  felicity 

Which,  being  not,  we  deem  may  be ; 

It  centers  hope  in  certainty. 

So,  stronger  from  this  green  hill  shrine 
I  pass  to  cares  and  tasks  of  mine, 
And,  grateful,  bless  my  healing  pine. 

IV. 

And  tell  me,  is  there  not  a  grandeur  in  the 
year's  decay ;  is  there  not,  indeed,  splendor 
enough  in  its  dying,  after  all  this  beauty  of 
ripeness  ?  Come !  let  us  go,  for  autumn  issues 
her  own  invitations,  prized  as  the  cards  with 
which  we  enter  our  drawing-rooms.  They  are 
got  out  in  colored  lithographs.  The  spring- 
struck  rhymer  may  always  wish  to  see  green 
leaves ;  but  the  lover  of  variety  will  still  follow 
"autumn  in  her  weeds  of  yellow  and  crimson." 
Summer  fills  the  soul  with  languor,  and  shuts 


3io  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

up  the  fountains  of  feeling;  but  the  first  frost 
tightens  and  tingles  every  nerve,  and  awakens 
all  the  spirit  of  song.  Come !  let  us  away  to 
the  transfigured  woods  !  See,  where  the  forest 
lies  flanked  by  wide,  green  fields,  through 
which  the  limpid  river  goes  roundingly,  to 
catch  its  glories  in  reflection.  Enter  this  pri 
meval  cathedral,  and  stand  amid  its  golden 
lights.  How  its  sky  windows  hang  emblaz 
oned!  Farther  on  in  the  wood  there  is  an 
open  space,  and  a  little  lake  lies  to  mirror  all 
this  enchantment  in  its  bosom.  It  is  a  spot 
where  sylvan  beauty  might  stand  to  dress  her 
locks.  The  worlds  of  dream,  the  fairy-lands 
of  childhood,  the  Arabian  palaces,  grow  tame 
and  pale  before  this  wild  domain — this  flush 
of  fairness.  We  say  aloud, — 

"O  what  a  glory  doth  the  year  put  on !" 

Sit  down  on  the  mottled  base  of  this  noble 
beech,  and  open  your  Bryant : 

"The  mountains  that  infold 

In  their  \vide  sweep  the  colored  landscape  round 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and 

gold, 
That  guard  th'  enchanted  ground. 


Autumnal  Notes.  311 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow, 

Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 
On  the  green  fields  below." 

Turn  the  leaves  over,  and,  while  the  smoky  rill 
glimmers,  and  the  chestnut  patters  down,  and 
the  leaves  "fall  like  flakes  of  light  to  the 
ground,"  while  "the  maples  redden  in  the  sun," 
and 

"Upon  the  grassy  mold 
The  purple  oak-leaf  falls ;  the  birchen  bough 
Drops  its  bright  spoil  like  arrow-heads  of  gold," 

let  us  find  a  worthy  accompaniment  to  the 
great  anthem  of  the  year  in  our  good  descrip 
tive  poet.  Or,  if  you  will  listen  to  something 
humbler,  here  is  a  plaintive  autumnal  song 
from  the  Acadian  minstrel,  John  McPherson: 

At  morn  the  dew-drench'd  gossamers 

Hang  sparkling  everywhere, 
And  richer  robes  the  dusky  firs 

And  royal  maples  wear ; 
O'er  all  the  woods  a  rainbow  sheen, 

Enchanting  to  the  eye, 
Matches  the  rich  relieving  green 

That  vale  and  plain  supply : 
But  these  are  withering,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  north  wind's  breath : 
So  this  world's  glory  fades  away, 

So  bright  things  bow  to  death. 


312  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

A  fitful  sound  of  spectral  wings 

Is  heard  in  all  our  bowers, — 
It  is  the  dirge  the  wild  wind  sings 

Above  the  faded  flowers ; 
As  oft  in  gloom,  'mid  beauty  fled 

And  glory  gone,  it  grieves, 
Like  Love  beside  the  early  dead, 

Among  the  falling  leaves. 

Sweet  now  to  wander  by  the  lake, 

Amid  the  forest  hoar, 
Whose  silvery  joyous  waters  make 

Soft  music  on  the  shore ; — 
To  mark,  beneath  the  tranquil  light, 

The  tall  trees  drooping  low, 
And  pining  o'er  their  mirror'd  blight, 

Like  Beauty  in  her  woe : 
Sweet  now  to  rove,  with  minstrel  thought, 

Amid  the  fair  decay, 
And  mark  the  wondrous  changes  wrought 

Around  our  pilgrim  way ; 
And  sweet,  at  holy  hush  of  day, 

To  walk  by  murmuring  rill, 
And  think  of  loved  ones,  far  away, 

The  heart  remembers  still ; 
For  soothing  to  the  soul  the  tear 

Wherewith  affection  grieves, 
O'er  feeling's  beautiful  past  year, 

Among  her  falling  leaves. 

And  sweet,  laborious  summer  past, 

To  take  the  earned  repose 
That  toiling  man  enjoys  at  last 

When  autumn  evenings  close; — 


Autumnal  Notes.  313 

The  cheery  hearth-fire,  sparkling  clear, 

The  kettle's  simmering  song, 
The  lov'd  home  faces  clust'ring  near, 

When  evening  hours  are  long : 
Sweet,  after  all  our  moil  and  care, 

To  hoard  our  little  store, 
And  warmly  breathe  the  grateful  prayer 

That  Heaven  rewards  with  more : 
When  round  the  harvest-board  we  share 

The  boon  of  temperate  joy, 
May  we  not  smile  at  all  the  care, 

The  trouble  and  annoy? 
Yes,  soft  the  pillow  that  we  press, 

When,  'mid  our  garnered  sheaves, 
We  sink  to  sleep,  and,  dreaming,  bless 

The  time  of  falling  leaves. 


V. 


"The  Queen  Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  round  by  all  her  starry  fays." 

—Keats. 

The  moon  seems  this  evening  to  have  bor 
rowed  half  the  glory  and  fervor  of  the  sun,  as 
we  see  her  shining  at  the  full  between  the  arch 
ing  elms  of  our  street.  The  mass  of  leaves, 
here  and  there  slightly  colored,  make  a  luxuri 
ous  foil  for  her  magnificence,  where  she  sits 
in  sultry  state  in  the  eastern  dome  of  the  firma 
ment  ;  while,  in  the  opposite,  play  the  hot  and 


314  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

restless  flashes  of  some  distant  cloud.  Sum 
mer,  that  lingered  apart  from  us  throughout 
its  proper  cycle  of  July  and  August,  sits  with 
hazy  garment  widely  spread.  So  stifling  an 
atmosphere  as  that  of  parlor  or  study  sends 
us  outside,  where  we  may  draw  a  cool  and 
easy  breath  with  something  of  satisfaction ; 
and  at  eight  o'clock  we  sit  about  the  door, 
still  gasping  at  the  very  memory  of  the  day, 
while  the  children  gambol  on  the  bit  of  lawn 
we  have  bordered  with  sun-burned  asters.  It 
is  good  on  this  quiet  air  to  hear  their  cheer 
ful  voices ! 

What  a  noble  scheme  seems  this  in  the  midst 
of  which  we  sit !  The  whole  creation  seems 
to  have  taken  on  an  extra  burnish. 

"Mamma,  who  makes  it  light,  and  who 
makes  it  dark  ?"  This  is  the  question  of  young 
Harold,  who  now  plucks  his  mother's  gown, 
lifting  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"Why,  it  is  God,"  she  asseverates,  with  sol 
emn  assurance. 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  he  responds  brightly,  as 
pleased  to  be  able  to  concur  with  her  on  so 
grave  and  grand  a  subject, — "'cause  he  has 
the  sheenery  to  do  it  with." 

"Look  yonder  to  the  horizon,  and  see  that 


Autumnal  Notes.  315 

Gorgon  in  the  northwest  wink  his  eye, — but 
be  thankful  he  is  not  at  hand  to  gaze  at  you." 
It  is  the  family  poet  who  volunteers  so  classic 
an  allusion  to  the  distant  cloud,  more  somnific 
and  ashen  in  its  glum  habitude  than  the  fel 
low  who  frowned  and  blazed  over  us  yester 
day  at  sunset,  while  the  grass  grew  greener, 
and  glistened  with  a  strange,  magnetic  luster. 

"See !  the  Gorgon-cloud  is  winking  again !" 
exclaims  Grace,  as  the  huge,  gray  creature 
grows  luminous  once  more,  its  sullen  bosom 
pulsating  with  lambent  fire,  while  an  angry  fist 
seems  lifted  out  of  it,  clutching  bright  arrows. 

"Would  that  yonder  cloud  might  drift  round 
to  us !"  sighs  pater- familias,  drawing  a  deeper 
breath.  "It  is  welcome  to  arrive  before  mid 
night.  I  think  we  may  take  the  risk  of  any 
stray  bolts  for  the  sake  of  what  our  good 
sister  P terms  'mercy-drops  from  mercy- 
clouds/  while  you,  good  wife,  would  sleep  all 
the  sounder  for  the  thunder." 

We  have  seen  enough  of  heat  and  dust  to 
day.  It  searched  us,  it  clave  unto  us.  Even 
dust,  however,  may  become  a  beautiful  thing 
when  the  sunset  chooses  it  for  a  medium,  as 
I  saw  it  yesterday,  while  coming  up  street, — 
the  Joy-giver  sending  me  his  parting  blink 


316  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

through  the  sylvan  vista.  Then  the  cloud  was 
one  of  glory,  and  I  was  not  involved  therein, 
— which  makes  all  the  difference : 

''Dear  native  town  whose  choking  elms  each  year 
With  eddying  dust  before  their  time  turn  gray, 
Pining  for  rain, — to  me  thy  dust  is  dear; 

It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 
And  when  the  westering  sun  half  sunken  burns, 
The  mote-thick  air  to  deepest  orange  turns, 

The  westward  horseman  rides  through  clouds  of 
gold  away."  * 

And  these  last  are  autumnal  notes,  for  all 
their  semblance  of  summer. 

VI. 

In  August  the  camper  is  abroad,  and  many 
a  white  tent  is  spread  by  lake-shores  in  the 
Canadian  wildernesses,  and  the  wilds  of  Maine, 
about  Moosehead  and  Katahdin.  Some  of  my 
brethren  are  there,  and  I  send  after  them  the 
felicitation  of  song.  But  amid  the  heats  of 
summer  my  heart  obeys  another  summons :  I 
accept  the  invitation  of  the  sea, — the  sound 
of  whose  waves  is  sweeter  in  my  ears  than  the 
music  of  the  mountain  or  the  forest.  But  with 
the  advent  of  glorious  September ;  or,  better 

*  Lowell,  "An  Indian  Summer  Reverie." 


Autumnal  Notes.  317 

still,  under  the  hunter's  moon,  when,  with  his 
rifle  and  his  Indian  guide,  he  plunges  into 
delightful  freedom, — then,  ho !  for  the  woods ! 

HUNTER'S  SONG. 

Ho !  for  the  woods  !     Ho !  for  the  woodmen's 

cheer ! 

The  rod,  the  rifle,  and  the  light  canoe; 
The  swift  pursuit  of  caribou  and  deer ; 
The  flash  of  salmon  from  the  liquid  blue ! 
Welcome  to  our  retreat,  ye  jovial  few, 
In  this  the  merriest  hey-day  of  the  year ! 
Ho !  for  the  rush  of  the  descending  stream, 
Bright  in  the  morning  beam! 

Ho  !  for  the  shouting  crew,  the  echoing  shore  ! 

The  rifle's  crack  amid  the  vocal  glades ; 
The  torrent's  long  reverberating  roar; 

The  flash  of  flying  gems  from  paddle  blades ; 
The  twilight  hush  falling  on  lengthening 

shades ! 

Welcome  the  song,  the  chorus,  the  encore, 
The  tale  of  awe,  the  joke,  the  repartee, — 
The  evening  jollity ! 

Ho  !  for  the  camp  !    Ho  !  for  the  boughy  bed ! 
The  welcoming  firelight's  gleam,  reflected  far, 

On  glassy  lake,  and  leafy  boughs  o'erhead ! 
Ho !  for  companionship  of  moon  and  star, 
Where  sandy  coves  and   spreading  branches 
are ! 


318  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Welcome !  the  sylvan  board  at  evening  spread, 
When  merry  hunters  from  their  sport  return 
To  bid  the  camp-fire  burn ! 

Ho !  for  the  promised  season  of  delight ! 

Leave  we  our  plodding,  cast  our  care  behind : 

To  the  wide  woods  we  '11  take  our  annual  flight,- 
The  body  brace,  invigorate  the  mind  : 
Come !  ye  to  nature  genially  inclined, 

To  the  free  life,  the  sylvan  sound  and  sight 

The  forest's  fortune  and  the  lake's  career, — 
The  charm  of  all  the  year ! 


VII. 


The   death   of   Schiller,   we   are   told,   was 
preceded  by  a  desire,  almost  overmastering, — 

"To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 
The  homes  and  haunts  of  human  kind." 

Something  of  this  feeling  possesses  me  with 
the  coming  in  of  autumn.  Amid  blistering 
heats  I  can  tamely  submit  to  the  yoke  and  the 
treadmill;  but  by  the  first  sparkle  of  October 
frost,  and  the  first  tinge  of  maple  leaves,  I  am 
stung  with  a  gypsy-virus,  and  straightway 
assert  my  liberty.  Then  I  protest  against  all 
home-keeping,  and  affect  the  pilgrim's  wal- 


Autumnal  Notes.  319 

let, — deeming,  with  that  true  lover  of  autum 
nal  roving,  Bliss  Carman,  that — 

"The  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these: 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees; 

A  vagrant  morning  wide  and  blue, 

In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too ; 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp ; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 
The  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill ; 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince ; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood, — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through, — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird ; 

The  resonant  far-listening  morn, 
And  the  hoarse  whisper  of  the  corn ; 


320  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

The  crickets  mourning  their  comrades  lost, 
In  the  night's  retreat  from  the  gathering  frost; 

Or  is  it  their  slogan,  plaintive  and  shrill, 
As  they  beat  on  their  corslets  valiant  still  ? 

A  hunger  fit  for  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
And  a  loaf  of  bread  for  Dickon  and  me; 


An  idle  noon,  a  bubbling  spring, 
The  sea  in  the  pine-tops  murmuring." 

Wordsworth,  we  remember,  coveted  a  fig 
ment  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  muse,  and  certainly 
her 

"Life,  we  have  been  long  together," 


is  so  like  some  of  his  own  literary  children 
that  we  do  not  wonder  if  he  felt  like  adopting 
it  and  bringing  it  home.  For  an  unlike  rea 
son  we  have  cast  wandering,  wistful  eyes  on 
another  waif  of  Carman,  adrift  in  newspaper- 
dom,  because  the  spirit  of  it  is  so  like  what 
we  feel,  while  the  expression  is  so  different 
from  anything  attributable  to  us.  Neverthe 
less,  we  are  tempted  to  adopt  it,  though,  un- 


Autumnal  Notes.  321 

equal  in  degree,  it  should  show  itself  a  prince 
among  peasants,  in  very  scorn  of  our  unkempt 
group.  It  is  a  song,  indeed, — so  quickening 
to  the  blood,  so  consonant  with  our  emotion 
so  soon  as  the  nomad  season  commences,  that 
should  a  procession  of  the  elves  go  up  to  the 
maple-hills  with  a  band  of  music,  their  "skreel- 
ing"  at  their  pipes  and  the  "pan-pan-rataplan" 
of  their  drum  might  fit  the  rattling,  rollicking 
words  of  our  poet : 

OCTOBER. 

There  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to 

my  blood — 

Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme, 
With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the  crimson 

keeping  time. 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 

Of  bugles  going  by, 

And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy  blood 

astir; 

We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 
When  from  every  hill  of  flame 
She  calls,  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 

21 


322  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

VIII. 

The  carnival  of  color  is  now  at  its  height, 
despite  the  occasional  drenchiness  of  autumnal 
leaves ;  the  spectacular  play  of  the  season  is 
in  its  third  and  most  interesting  act.  You 
need  not  go  far  to  find  the  "bush  on  fire  with 
God."  All  our  street  is  a  tent  of  gold,  draped 
with  hangings,  as  torn  from  a  myriad  of  rain 
bows, — and  a  tent  it  is,  fit  for  the  conference 
of  kings.  The  other  day  I  stood  upon  a  hill 
top  and  looked  over  a  wide  circuit  of  forest 
country.  Tree  and  bush  were  everywhere 
aflame  with  color.  In  truth,  it  was  a  glorious 
prospect ! 

"Circling  forests,  by  ethereal  touch 
Enchanted,  wear  the  livery  of  the  sky, 
As  if  about  to  melt  in  golden  light, 
Shapes  of  one  heavenly  vision."* 

So,  I  thought,  can  a  God  paint,  with  frost  for 
pigment,  and  sunbeam  for  pencil.  That  pano 
rama  of  delight  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

Notice  everywhere  the  deepening  hues — 
how  profuse,  how  various !  See  these  mosses, 
these  lichens,  and  creepers, — how  wondrously 


*  "  Ion :  A  Tragedy,"  by  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 


Autumnal  Notes.  323 

they  are  dyed !  Look  at  these  shrubs  of  many 
kinds, — these  are  the  undergarments  of  the 
forest,  which,  with  the  little,  late  flowers,  form 
the  frills  and  little  ruffs  and  spangles  with 
which  our  sylvan  beauty  loves  to  adorn  her 
self.  They  all  help  to  swell  the  volume  of 
gorgeousness,  and  to  make  of  the  woods  a 
dream  of  fairyland.  See  where  the  maple — 
that  pride  of  leafy  things ! — merges  into  rich 
ness,  breaks  into  change  of  hue !  What  won 
ders  have  been  in  a  single  night  accomplished ! 
A  limb  of  this  tree  here  and  there  stipples  and 
dashes  the  darker  green,  and  the  still  duskier 
furze.  Afar  off  the  maple's  royalty  arrests 
you.  This  is  indeed  the  bush  on  fire,  with  that 
beech  behind  it  to  give  golden  point  to  the 
flame.  See  where  it  has  begun  to  purple,  with 
gilded  streaks  cutting  through  its  kingliness 
of  hue.  Here  a  tint  softens,  and  there  it  grows 
in  brilliancy.  It  is  an  anthem  of  color,  run 
ning  through  the  entire  scale.  The  duller 
shade  of  the  ash  is  the  more  noticeable,  being 
so  seldom  seen. 

The  maple  is  in  its  investiture,  the  prime 
of  trees.  It  is,  according  to  one  of  our  poets, 
"the  maple  of  sunny  branches."*  And  an- 

*  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 


324  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

other,  who  had  a  keen  eye  for  color,  paints 
our  tree  of  the  most  finely-pictured  leaves: 

"The  maple  swamps  glow  like  a  sunset  sea, 

Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate  flush ; 
All  round  the  wood's  edge  creeps  the  skirting 

blaze 
Of  bush  as  low  as  when,  on  cloudy  days, 

Ere  the  rain  falls  the  farmer  burns  his  brush."* 

It  has  a  peculiar  loveliness  in  its  vernal  season, 
but  just  now  we  dote  on  it.  It  is  a  fountain 
of  sweetness  before  March  comes  in,  and  its 
first  buddings  gladden  us;  the  richness  of  its 
clustering  shade  makes  cool  and  dreamy  the 
summer;  but  now  it  is  incomparable — a  crown 
of  glory !  Give  me  plenty  of  firs,  a  background 
of  whispering  pines,  some  spiny  spruces,  a 
hemlock  or  two,  nor  will  I  ignore  the  oak, 
looking 

"A  sachem,  in  red  blanket  wrapt." 

Some  lady-birches  should  scatter  here  and 
there  immaculate  graces  in  the  fore,  or  we 
can  not  be  quite  content. 

"I  only  know  there  never 

Seem  darker  stains  on  me 
Than  when  I  come  and  look  on  them, 
And  all  their  whiteness  see."f 


*  James  Rustell  Lowell.  fRalph  H.  Shaw. 


Autumnal  Notes.  325 

But  standing  well  out  before  them  all,  should 
be  the  maple — "queen  of  the  forest!" — with 
her  crown  of  rubies  on.  Seeing  this,  I  will 
take  off  my  shoes — I  will  uncover  my  head. 
I  will  not  ask  for  the  Voice  in  Horeb,  and  the 
bush  unconsumed  in  fire ! 

Notice  the  maple  out  on  yonder  hill,  with 
its  foliage  against  the  sky.  It  shows  upon 
the  blue  like  a  blood-red  flag  waved  from  a 
fortress.  It  challenges  your  pride  and  admi 
ration.  It  summons  your  fancy  to  render 
tribute.  If  you  have  any  finer  feeling, — any 
of  the  poetic  ore  in  your  treasury,  you  may  sur 
render  it  at  discretion.  See !  how  all  along 
the  swampy  margins,  beyond  the  dwarfed  skel 
etons  of  trees,  grayly  bemossed,  the  low  shrub- 
maples  have  first  begun  to  change.  Surely  the 
woods  have  begun  their  autumnal  gayety  by 
putting  on  a  splendid  hem !  How  royal  those 
crimsons  and  purples  are!  Wine-dark  depths 
of  shade !  Artist !  you  can  not  approach  this 
magnificence !  Come  to  the  woods,  not  so 
much  to  copy  as  to  admire — to  worship. 

Now  is  the  season  for  walking  where 

"October  woods  with  light  are  all  aglow ; 

Their  summer  paths,  dim  as  monastic  aisles, 
Are  lighted  now  from  golden  leaves  below, 

Through  golden  leaves  above  the  sunshine  smiles." 


326  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

A  carpet,  brilliant  as  the  canopy  overhead, 
lies  under  your  feet.  A  golden  fringe  lines 
the  way;  it  is  the  autumn  flower  the  poets 
most  have  sung.  There  is  also  the  blossom 
that  seems  a  cerulean  bit  dropped  down.  The 
maple's  form  gains  splendor  by  reflection  in 
the  waters  of  the  wayside  pool.  But,  when 
the  silent  lake  mirrors  the  clear  concavity  of 
the  sky,  and  around  it  the  trees  in  all  their 
holiday  dresses  look  down,  ah!  is  it  not  de 
licious?  Reflection  makes  so  much  of  this 
world's  beauty! 

"The  swan  upon  St.  Mary's  lake 
Floats  double,  swan  and  shadow ;" 

and  so  gives  us  a  double  joy.  Yes,  these 
late  hours  of  golden  September  yield  us  ex 
quisite  enjoyment,  whenever  we  can  give  an 
afternoon  to  the  woods.  A  refreshment  to 
the  eye  is  the  grassy  slope  itself,  over  which 
we  go  to  reach  the  nearest  grove.  "The  green 
herb,"  declares  Ruskin,  "is,  of  all  nature,  that 
which  is  most  essential  to  the  healthy  spir 
itual  life  of  man.  Most  of  us  do  not  need 
fine  scenery;  the  precipice  and  the  mountain- 
peak  are  not  intended  to  be  seen  by  all  men, — 
perhaps  their  power  is  greatest  over  those 


Autumnal  Notes.  327 

who  are  unaccustomed  to  them.  But  trees, 
and  fields,  and  flowers  were  made  for  all,  and 
are  necessary  for  all."  The  grassy  field,  or 
the  lane,  is,  therefore,  to  us  the  prelude  of  the 
forest.  A  sense  of  strength  and  majesty  enters 
through  the  eye  from  the  stone-colored  bole 
of  this  smooth  beech,  and  informs  the  spirit. 
It  consumes  our  care  to  see  the  maple  burn. 
It  is  good  to  scatter  our  petty  fears  by  taking 
to  ourself  the  terrors  of  the  grim  and  dusky 
hemlocks.  We  are  graced  with  a  new  cour 
tesy  by  taking  off  our  hat  before  the  lissome 
birch,  in  her  satin  vest ;  she  is 

"So  purely  beautiful — 
A  lady — wholly  one !" 

Stop  and  notice  where  "bright  the  sumach 
burns,"  familiar  and  dear  from  our  childhood. 
Stoop  and  see  where  the  ferns  are  turning 
brown — fading  gracefully.  No  growing  thing 
is  more  congenial  to  me  than  the  fern  my 
daughter  brought  from  the  woods,  and  set  in 
my  window.  We  love  ferns,  though  here  so 
numerous  they  are  crushed  where  we  tread. 
The  wind  can  break  them — the  wind  that 
plucks  the  leaf  to  cast  it  in  the  rivulet.  Take 
an  hour,  as  often  as  you  can,  to  make  your 


328  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

truce  with  care.  When  you  go  homeward, 
the  same  enchantment  is  yours  that  attended 
your  coming. 

There  come  in  mind  the  closing  stanzas  of 
Whittier's  "Chapel  of  the  Hermits :" 

"We  rose  and  slowly  homeward  turned. 
While  down  the  west  the  sunset  burned ; 
And  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms,  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves,  like  lamps  of  gold." 

IX. 

"  'T  is  in  the  unseen  clime  that  soft  and  fair 

Nor  blight  nor  wither ;  here  the  tenderest  flower 
Must  soonest  fade." 

There  are  certain  blossoms  that  glow  toward 
me  from  the  garden,  and  that  brighten  the 
view  from  the  window-seat.  After  the  eva 
nescence  of  violet  and  rose,  they  are  called 
everlasting.  The  distance  gives  them  a  cer 
tain  factitious  luster,  so  that  they  look  as 
freshly-bright  as  any  of  their  fair  companions. 
The  dew  falls  on  them,  as  upon  other,  softer, 


Autumnal  Notes.  329 

tenderer  flowers ;  but  they  can  also  endure  the 
frost.  They  keep  company  with  the  velvet 
pansy,  they  neighbor  with  the  silken  rose,  and 
hobnob  with  the  lush  splendors  of  dahlia  and 
peony;  but,  if  you  approach  and  touch  them, 
they  are,  to  the  seeming,  harsh  and  hard ;  they 
bloom,  yet  rustle  dry.  In  my  present  mood, 
I  find  here  some  resemblance  to  my  own  na 
ture.  I  fear  me,  I  am  doomed  to  disappoint 
some  who,  seeing  me  from  a  distance,  draw 
nearer  to  touch.  Not  that  I  have  ever  been, 
or  wish  ever  to  be,  a  subject  of  idolatry;  yet 
they  who  too  much  handle  their  idols  have 
ever  had  most  occasion  to  recoil  from  asperity. 
Yet  there  is  this  virtue  about  the  "everlasting" 
flower — it  will  endure.  When  snow  lies  over 
the  matted  leaves  where  the  warm,  moist,  lus 
trous  children  of  the  garden  dwelt,  and  the 
dry  stalks  that  once  bore  rich,  commanding 
blooms,  rustle  in  the  wind,  the  wreaths  of 
"everlasting"  blossoms  look  still  smiling  from 
the  fire-lit  walls  of  your  cosy  room,  making 
late  cheer,  and  giving  you  a  winter-welcome. 
We  love  and  quote  Wordsworth : 

"O  sir,  the  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket;" 


33°  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

which  seems  to  me  a  scanty  courtesy  to  the 
"hard,"  it  may  be,  but  yet,  "good  gray  heads" 
that  grow  old  among  us, — of  whom  his  own 
was  the  most  eminent  and  venerable.  Thank 
God  for  the  human  flowers,  that  may  some 
times  seem  a  trifle  husky,  but  are  loth  to  fade ! 
I  love  to  remember  a  brief  poem  by  Robert 
Southey,  about  "The  Holly  Tree,"— one  of 
the  most  genuine  this  somewhat  discredited 
muse  has  afforded  us, — the  following  lines  in 
particular : 

"And  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere, 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 

Reserved  and  rude; 

Gentle  at  home  among  my  friends  I  'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I  know, 

Some  harshness  show, 
All  vain  asperities,  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away. 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  holly  leaves  their  fadeless  hues  display 

Less  bright  than  they, 

Yet  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree? 


Autumnal  Notes.  331 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng, 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  so  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree." 


X. 

As  autumn  makes  her  full-dress  entree  to 
the  Dominion,  she  has  abundant  recognition 
by  Canadian  poets,  whose  pages  are  rich  with 
her  color.  Thus,  Isabella  Valancey  Crawford : 

"The  land  had  put  his  ruddy  gauntlet  on, 
Of  harvest  gold,  to  dash  in  Famine's  face. 
And  like  a  vintage  wain,  deep  dy'd  with  juice, 
The  great  moon  falter'd  up  the  ripe,  blue  sky 
Drawn  by  silver  stars.     .     .     ." 

Roberts,  painter  of  the  Tantramar,  and  poet 
of  "the  long  dikes  of  Westmoreland,"  shows 
us  how  the  autumnal  woods  look, — 

"When  the  gray  lake-water  rushes 
Past  the  dripping  alder  bushes, 

And  the  bodeful  autumn  wind 
In  the  fir-tree  weeps  and  hushes, — 

When  the  air  is  sharply  damp 
Round  the  solitary  camp, 

And  the  moose-bush  in  the  thicket 
Glimmers  like  a  scarlet  lamp, — 


332  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

When  the  birches  twinkle  yellow, 
And  the  cornel  bunches  mellow, 

And  the  owl  across  the  twilight 
Trumpets  to  his  downy  fellow, — 

When  the  nut-fed  chipmunks  romp 
Through  the  maples'  crimson  pomp, 

And  the  slim  viburnum  flushes 
In  the  darkness  of  the  swamp." 

Lampman  paints  "An  Octobery  Sunset,"  and 
shows  us  the  season  when — 

"The  cornfields  all  are  brown,  and  brown  the 

meadows 

With  the  blown  leaves'  wind-heaped  traceries 
And  the  brown  thistle  stems  that  cast  no  shadows, 
And  bear  no  bloom  for  bees." 

Ethelwyn  Wetherald,  Duncan  C.  Scott,  and 
others  we  might  name,  give  autumnal  pictures 
well  worthy  our  citation ;  and  Carman,  who 
has  caught  the  luxury  of  October  coloring, 
shows  how  still  are  the  autumn  noons,  tinged 
by 

"The  soft  purple  haze 
Of  smoldering  camp-fires ;" 

shows  us  "the  tatters  of  pale  aster  blue,  de 
scried  by  the  roadside,"  and 

"The  swamp  maples,  here  and  there  a  shred 
Of  Indian  red." 


Autumnal  Notes.  333 

And  fit  for  this  season  of  dream  and  ro 
mance  is  this  delightful  lyric  of  his : 

GOLDEN  ROWAN. 

She  lived  where  the  mountains  go  down 
to  the  sea, 

And  river  and  tide  confer. 
Golden  rowan,  in  Menalowan, 

Was  the  name  they  gave  to  her. 

She  had  the  soul  no  circumstance 

Can  hurry  or  deter. 
Golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 

How  time  stood  still  for  her ! 

Her  playmates  for  their  lovers  grew, 

But  that  shy  wanderer, 
Golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 

Knew  love  was  not  for  her. 

Hers  was  the  love  of  wilding  things ; 

To  hear  a  squirrel  chirr 
In  the  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan 

Was  joy  enough  for  her. 

She  sleeps  on  the  hill  with  the  lonely  sun, 
Where  in  the  days  that  were, 

The  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan 
So  often  shadowed  her. 

The  scarlet  fruit  will  come  to  fill, 

The  scarlet  spring  to  stir 
The  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan, 

And  wake  no  dream  for  her. 


334  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Only  the  wind  is  over  her  grave, 
For  mourner  and  comforter ; 

And  "golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
Is  all  we  know  of  her. 


XL 

I  went,  with  Grace  and  Harold,  to  gather 
acorns ;  which,  in  this  year  of  scant  crops, 
are  found  here  in  abundance.  The  oaks  grow 
with  other  deciduous  trees,  and  a  few  pines, 
along  the  bank  of  the  Penobscot ;  and  the  well- 
worn  path  skirting  the  edge  of  the  bluff  is  an 
ideal  one  for  strolling  in  these  perfect  after 
noons.  When  Grace  had  filled  her  basket,  and 
Harold  his  grape-box,  we  sat  for  a  while  under 
a  leaning  pine, — a  headland  sentinel  where  the 
bluff  juts  out  to  the  stream,  and  where  we 
could  look  for  a  considerable  distance  down 
its  calm  and  sunny  waters.  We  watched  the 
vessels,  and  the  crossing  ferry-boat,  for  a  while 
in  silence,  when  Harold  bethought  him  of  a 
story  I  had  commenced  to  tell  him  on  an  even 
ing,  and  which  was  cut  short  by  interruption. 

"It  was  a  story,"  I  said,  "concerning  the 
little  daughter  of  an  English  officer  stationed 
in  South  Africa.  This  blue-eyed  little  girl 
had  many  soldiers  to  love  her,  for  there  were 


Autumnal  Notes.  335 

no  others  so  fair  as  she  in  that  land ;  and  many 
a  kind  hand  was  laid  on  her  little  curly  head ; 
in  fact,  the  beautiful  Lottie  became  the  dar 
ling  of  the  regiment;  while  she  did  not  spoil 
because  they  petted  her,  for  her  heart  was 
golden,  like  her  head.  She  had  a  child's  love 
for  flowers;  and  many  and  beautiful  are  the 
posies  growing  in  that  far-away  land.  So 
this  'little  image  of  her  mother/  as  they  called 
her,  went  away  into  a  meadow  to  gather  blos 
soms.  Can  you  not  see  her  sunny  face  in  that 
fair  meadow,  with  her  hair  floating  free?  It 
seemed  a  delightful  place  to  her.  The  sod 
was  rich,  the  grass  was  thick  and  green,  and 
often  in  her  glee  she  stooped  to  pluck  the 
blossoms  that  glowed  around  her, — 

"  'Carnation,  purple,  azure,  or  gay  speck'd  with  gold.' 

"It  was  good  to  have  so  much  freedom,  she 
thought;  so,  soon  she  strayed  beyond  the 
meadow  into  an  old  forest,  grand  and  cool, 
whose  shade  seemed  to  invite  her  to  enter. 
While  the  day  lasted,  she  wandered  fearlessly 
on.  There  were  spaces  and  avenues  in  the 
wood,  through  which  she  went,  that  seemed 
just  as  pleasant  to  her  as  the  meadow;  for 
here  she  could  sit  down  on  mossy  banks  and 


336  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

tufts  of  grass,  and  gather  many  beautiful  blos 
soms.  Poor,  dear  little  soul!  when  the  dusk 
fell,  and  she  tried  to  find  her  way  back  over 
the  paths  by  which  she  had  come,  she  became 
lost  and  bewildered,  and  only  went  farther  and 
farther  out  of  her  way.  Her  heart  beat  very 
wildly,  and  her  tears  were  many,  as  she  hastened 
on,  but  she  did  not  cry  aloud.  By  and  by  she 
came  to  a  brook,  which  she  partly  crossed  on 
the  stones ;  then,  as  she  did  not  know  what  to 
do,  she  staid  there,  standing  on  a  flat  rock, 
with  her  back  against  a  very  large  one.  Per 
haps  there  was  One  who  made  it  to  her  as 
'the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.' 
When  night  came  on,  and  it  was  her  bedtime, 
she  said  her  evening  prayer,  just  as  she  always 
did,  and  thought  she  would  wait  there  till  her 
papa  came  for  her.  ...  In  the  morning 
he  found  her  standing  there,  the  sun  shining 
on  her  little  tear-stained  face :  she  was  sure 
he  would  come." 

"What  did  her  papa  say  to  her?"  said 
Grace. 

"Nothing,  at  first ;  he  just  took  her  up  in  his 
arms,  hugged  her  to  him,  and  carried  her  away 
homeward.  But,  afterwards,  when  he  asked 
her  what  she  saw  there  in  the  night,  she  told 


Autumnal  Notes.  337 

him  what  made  him  tremble.  She  said  she 
saw  the  moon  come  up  above  the  trees ;  and 
then  three  or  four  great  dogs  came  down  to 
the  water  to  drink." 

"Lions !  Was  n't  they  lions,  papa  ?"  broke 
in  Harold,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  they  were  lions.  She  said  they  came 
up  to  her,  snuffed  at  her ;  then  they  licked  her 
hands  and  cheek.  They  looked  at  her  a  while, 
then  shook  their  shaggy  manes,  turned,  and 
went  away." 

"O !"  exclaimed  Grace,  "I  should  have  been 
so  frightened !  Were  their  tongues  soft,  or 
rough,  like  the  cat's,  when  they  lapped  her? 
Well,  I  am  so  glad  they  did  n't  eat  her, — why 
did  n't  they  eat  her,  papa  ?" 

"Perhaps  they  was  n't  hungry,"  said  Harold. 

"More  likely  they  pitied  the  poor  girl,"  Grace 
rejoined. 

"Probably  they  pitied  the  tot;  she  was  so 
little  and  so  sweet,  and  so  strange  a  being  to 
find  in  that  lonely  place.  But  can  you  think 
of  no  other  reason,  my  dear  ones,  why  the 
lions  did  not  hurt  her  ?" 

"The  lions  did  n't  hurt  Daniel,  'cause  God 
would  n't  let  'em,"  said  Grace. 

"Right,  my  child.     And  are  not  these  the 

22 


338  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

best  helps  to  safety — God,  and  a  pure  heart? 
What  was  it  Daniel  said  to  the  king,  who 
wondered  to  find  him  alive  that  morning? 
'My  God  hath  sent  his  angel,  and  has  shut 
the  lions'  mouths,  that  they  have  not  hurt  me : 
forasmuch  as  before  him  innocency  was  found 
in  me.'  So  might  the  little  girl  have  said,  if  she 
had  thought  of  it.  Heaven  grant  that,  in  the 
hour  of  their  peril,  my  darlings  may  be  found 
as  trustful  and  as  innocent.  A  pure  heart  is 
our  best  talisman." 

XII. 

Autumn  is  the  season  of  star-songs,  and  of 
astral  fancies.  Then,  when  the  golden-rod 
is  losing  its  bloom,  and  the  ripened  fruit  is 
falling,  and  the  leaves  are  swept  away  in  splen 
dor,  clusters  of  fire  are  hung  in  every  dark 
tree,  the  "young-eyed  cherubim"  begin  to  choir, 
and  the  poet's  heart  to  burn.  Then  it  is  he 
turns  his  eyes  upon  the  heavens,  to  behold 

"The  sun, 

And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon, 
And  stars  by  thousands." 

Then  it  is,  if  ever,  he  wishes 

"For  wings  to  soar  away 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray ;" 


Autumnal  Notes.  339 

or  wishes,  if  he  may  not  be  raised  to  such  a 
godlike  estate,  that  he  at  the  least  might  be 
able  to  draw  "an  angel  down." 

It  was  when  the  stars  had  begun  to  shine 
with  their  autumnal  luster  that  I  had  an  astro 
nomical  dream — or  an  astrological  one,  if  there 
be  any  preference  in  designation.  The  heav 
ens  were  inscribed  with  fiery  diagrams, — the 
Second  Advent  chart  entire,  with  the  planis- 
pheric  wonders  of  the  Apocalypse  and  the 
mysteries  of  the  Hebrew  seer  turned  loose, 
together  with  all  the  comets  that  have  ever 
appeared  in  our  system  since  the  memory  of 
man.  Like  wild  colts  in  a  pasture,  these  celes 
tial  coursers  ran  visibly  about  the  sky.  Now, 
do  not  attribute  this  riotous  display  to  a  diet 
of  mince-pie  or  cucumbers,  nor  dub  mine  "a 
dyspeptic's  dream ;"  for  in  the  hours  precedent 
to  that  sedative,  the  pillow,  an  abstinent  man 
am  I.  Whether  the  vision  holds  within  it  any 
significance,  even  were  a  Joseph  or  a  Daniel 
here  to  interpret  it,  I  can  not  say;  only  this, 
that  the  impression  was  flamboyantly  vivid. 

Our  calmer  minds  and  colder  eyes  have 
been  accustomed  to  look  toward  the  heavenly 
bodies  as  to  the  types  of  steadfast  being  and 
unfailing  regularity. 


34°  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"The  silent  heavens  have  goings  on, 
The  stars  have  tasks." 

Ages  of  time  are  required  for  the  slightest 
variations  of  these  distant  orbs.  We  look, 
and  Sirius  is  there.  Who  expects  Ursa  Major 
to  shift  his  place?  What  seems  to  us  at  once 
more  majestic  and  more  secure  than  these 
golden  milestones  of  infinite  space !  Hamurabi, 
Homer,  Job  looked  on  the  same  familiar  clus 
ters  that  greet  our  eyes,  and  named  them,  even 
as  we  name  them,  —  Arcturus  —  Pleiades  — 
Orion : 

"He  is  wise  in  heart,  and  mighty  in  strength,    .    .    . 
Which  commandeth  the  sun, 
And  it  ariseth  not, 

And  which  sealeth  up  the  stars.    .    .    . 
Which  maketh  Arcturus,  Orion,  and  Pleiades, 
And  the  chambers  of  the  south.* 

Thus  monstrous   forms  o'er  heaven's  nocturnal 

arch, 

Seen  by  the  sage  in  pomp  celestial  march ; 
See  Aries  there  his  glittering  brow  unfold, 
And  raging  Taurus  toss  his  horns  of  gold ; 
With  bended  bow  the  sullen  Archer  lowers, 
And  there  Aquarius  comes  with  all  his  showers ; 
Lions  and  centaurs,  gorgons,  hydras  rise, 
And  gods  and  heroes  blaze  along  the  skies."f 

*Job.       tHomer. 


Autumnal  Notes.  341 

And  yet, — musing  on  the  time  when  the  heav 
ens  shall  be  no  more,  and  the  elements  shall 
melt  with  fervent  heat, — 

"When  fire 
Shall  to  the  battlements  of  heaven  aspire," — 

a  half-insane  and  wizard  fancy  looks  up,  and 
expects  to  see  the  shining  universe  suddenly 
disbanded  and  dissolved;  as  if  God  did  not 
work  through  infinite  aeons  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  his  decrees,  before — to  use  the  majestic 
terms  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures — "the  heavens 
are  rolled  up  as  a  scroll."  And  if  a  comet 
should  appear,  what  superstitious  woes  and  ter 
rors  will  it  not  carry  in  its  train  !  What  rueful, 
royal  significance  of  fate,  those  shadowy,  su 
pernumeraries  of  the  sky  once  possessed! 

"The  heavens  themselves  blaze  forth  the  death  of 
princes." 

The  old  Roman  Augurs  saw  in  the  comet 
which  appeared  at  the  time  when  Julius  Csesar 
died,  a  glorious  chariot  sent  to  carry  his  daunt 
less  spirit  to  the  gods.  Such  an  appearance 
was  dreaded  as 

"Threatening  the  world  with  famine,  plague,  and 

war; 
To  princes,  death ;  to  kingdoms,  many  curses ; 


342  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

To  all  estates,  inevitable  losses ; 

To  herdsmen,  rot ;  to  plowmen,  hapless  seasons ; 

To  seasons,  storms;  to  cities,  civil  treasons." 

How  antiquated  to  the  devotee  of  modern 
literature,  or  to  the  student  of  recent  astron 
omy,  will  seem  this  bit  of  early  English : 
"Cometes  signifie  corruptions  of  the  ayre. 
They  are  signs  of  the  warres,  of  changing 
kyngedomes,  great  dearthe  of  corn,  yea,  a  com 
mon  deathe  of  man  and  beast."  And  what 
romancer  in  the  field  of  astronomy  to-day  will 
gravely  set  down  a  statement  like  the  follow 
ing?  "Experience  is  an  eminent  evidence  that 
a  comet  like  a  sword  portendeth  war;  and  a 
hairy  comet  with  a  beard  denoteth  the  death 
of  kings,  as  if  God  and  Nature  intended  by 
comets  to  ring  the  knells  of  princes,  esteem 
ing  bells  in  churches  upon  earth  not  sacred 
enough  for  such  illustrious  eminent  perform 
ances"  The  writer  evidently  believed  that 
"divinity  doth  hedge  a  king,"  and  thought  that 
royal  people,  like  angels,  are  of  a  distinct  and 
superior  species. 

The  wild-fire  astronomers  are  not  yet  ex 
tinct  ;  but  they  trim  their  sails  to  move  on 
another  tack  than  that  of  the  old-time  super 
stition.  Comets  are  still  of  curious  interest; 


Autumnal  Notes.  343 

but  no  longer,  unless  to  some  exceptionally 
benighted  vision,  portentous.  In  the  year  1812 
a  comet  appeared  in  our  northern  sky,  which 
became  an  object  of  awe  and  apprehension 
to  many  midnight  gazers,  as  it  was  believed 
by  some  to  be  the  identical  star  that  heralded 
the  birth  of  our  Savior,  and  now  appearing 
the  second  time,  as  the  forerunner  of  his  final 
coming  to  judgment,  and  the  destruction  of 
the  world.  But  there  was  one,  at  least,  who 
looked  upon  it  without  fear,  though  with  de 
light  ;  and,  as  he  was  a  poet,*  he  has  left  us  a 
record  of  the  impression  it  made  upon  him.  I, 
too,  remember  having,  while  yet  a  child,  crept 
from  my  bed  to  gaze  again  with  awe  and  won 
der,  not  unmingled  with  delight,  upon  a  later 
silvery,  shadowy  thing,  seen  through  my  cham 
ber  window : 

How  lovely  is  this  wildered  scene, 
As  twilight  from  her  vaults  so  blue 

Steals  soft  o'er  Yarrow's  mountains  green, 
To  sleep  embalmed  in  midnight  dew. 

All  hail,  ye  hills,  whose  towering  height, 
Like  shadows,  scoops  the  yielding  sky ! 

And  thou,  mysterious  guest  of  night, 
Dread  traveler  of  immensity. 


*The  Ettrick  Shepherd. 


344  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Stranger  of  heaven,  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Shred  from  the  pall  of  glory  riven, 
That  flashest  in  celestial  gale, 

Broad  pennon  of  the  King  of  heaven ! 

Art  thou  the  flag  of  woe  and  death, 
From  angel's  ensign  staff  unfurled? 

Art  thou  the  standard  of  His  wrath, 
Waved  o'er  a  sordid  sinful  world  ? 

No,  from  that  pure  pellucid  beam, 

That  erst  o'er  plains  of  Bethlehem  shone, 

No  latent  evil  we  can  deem, 

Bright  herald  of  the  eternal  throne ! 

Whate'er  portends  thy  front  of  fire, 
Thy  streaming  locks  so  lovely  pale ; 

Or  peace  to  man,  or  judgments  dire, 
Stranger  of  heaven,  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Where  hast  thou  roamed  these  thousand  years  ? 

Why  sought  these  polar  paths  again, 
From  wilderness  of  glowing  spheres 

To  fling  thy  vesture  o'er  the  wain? 

And  when  thou  scal'st  the  milky  way, 
And  vanishest  from  human  view, 

A  thousand  worlds  shall  hail  thy  ray 
Through  wilds  of  yon  empyreal  blue. 

O  on  thy  rapid  prow  to  glide ! 

To  sail  the  boundless  skies  with  thee, 
And  plow  the  twinkling  stars  aside, 

Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  morn. 


Autumnal  Notes.  345 

To  brush  the  embers  from  the  sun, 

The  icicles  from  off  the  pole, 
Then  far  to  other  systems  run, 

Where  other  moons  and  planets  roll! 

Stranger  of  heaven  !  O  let  thine  eye 
Smile  on  a  rapt  enthusiast's  dream; 

Eccentric  as  thy  course  on  high 
And  airy  as  thine  ambient  beam. 

And  long,  long  may  thy  silver  ray 
Our  northern  arch  at  eve  adorn ; 

Then,  wheeling  to  the  east  away, 

Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  morn. 


XIII. 

What  celestial  virtue  is  in  yonder  star,  that 
it  should  magnetize  my  thought,  or  that  its 
alluring  sparkle  should  wing  my  spirit  away 
on  another  track  from  this  over  which  I  have 
seemed  to  be  traveling?  It  matters  not  if 
some  conscious  spirit  is  there,  and  from  it 
an  effluence  diffusing ;  or,  if  it  be  only  the  point 
of  immaculate  beauty  that  has  lifted  my  musing 
mind, — the  pleasant  result  is  the  same;  care 
and  weariness  are  fading  from  me,  as  if  they 
were  haggard  ghosts,  unable  to  support  them 
selves  before  that  fair  and  steady  gaze,  so  con- 


346  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

stant,  serene,  untroubled.  There! — the  spell 
is  complete !  I  have  forgotten  the  chill  that 
is  in  this  air,  so  late  at  evening,  and  have 
spiritualized  the  river-mist  that  has  been  cling 
ing  around  me  with  eerie  suggestiveness,  over 
all  this  lonely  road.  I  am,  or  was,  a  tired 
man, — for  this  is  the  lull  following  the  full 
pressure  of  Sabbath  activity;  and  what  frail 
preacher  has  not  by  that  time  spent  his  nerve 
to  tedium,  to  exhaustion?  But,  under  the 
angel-touch  of  this  star,  and  with  memory, 
and  this  fairer  than  Diana  face  to  shine  upon 
me, — 

"Life  must  be  all  poetry, 
And  weariness  a  name." 

So  I  throw  myself  back  under  the  cover  of  the 
old  carriage,  and  let  Dinah,  if  she  will,  wander 
into  the  land  of  dreams. 

It  is  the  same  star  that  looked  upon  my 
boyhood,  and  is  one  of  the  few  objects  familiar 
to  me  then,  I  can  still  look  upon.  Blessed 
it  is  that,  however  we  wander,  our  heavenly 
companions  do  not  greatly  change,  nor  pass 
from  our  view.  And  now  I  seem  to  sit  upon 
a  certain  hill,  and  look  upon  that  star.  The 
tinkle  of  a  cow  bell  sounds  from  the  corner 


Autumnal  Notes.  347 

of  the  pasture  fence;  the  croak  and  peep  of 
frogs  come  from  the  pool  in  the  hollow,  beyond 
the  clump  of  spruces;  the  shades  are  falling 
deeper  where  stands  the  white-walled  cottage, 
and  I  hear  my  mother's  voice  calling  me, — 
but  still  I  sit  musing,  held  by  the  golden  finger 
of  the  star.  So  I  am  away  with  my  old  shining 
friend  to  Acadia,  and  to  that  region  of  it  to 
me  most  homelike,  most  enchanting  and 
radiant,  even  like  my  star;  most  richly  dow 
ered  of  nature,  most  favored  by  the  poetic  and 
historic  muse.  Is  it  not  singular  I  am  here  so 
quickly,  and  without  in  the  least  disarranging 
present  concerns,  or  impeding  my  journey 
along  this  mist-muffled  river?  I  have  eluded 
the  railways;  the  little  steamer  that  crosses 
Fundy  has  been  untrodden  by  my  corporeal 
feet;  yet  I  have  gone  to  Acadia,  not  leaving 
my  mare  without  a  driver.  Even  so! 

"How  swift  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light 
When  I  think  of  my  dear  native  land 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there."  .  .  . 

Those  Sabbath  evenings  at  home!     Out  of 
that  past,  which  never  comes  save  in  dreams, — 


348  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

and  yet,  it  seems,  must  be  always  coming, — 
their  voices  break  melodiously ;  and  move  ever 
into  clearer  vision  the  beautiful  semblances  of 
our  singers,  chastened,  sainted,  filled  with  ho 
liest  light.  O,  thou  star !  art  thou  a  witness 
where  some  of  them  are  now?  The  hours, 
when  the  shadows  fell  and  the  lamp  was 
lighted,  fled  away  on  musical  wings.  Again 
the  scene  is  full  before  me,  and  I  see  how 
cares  were  banished,  and  sorrow's  consoled: — 

"I  see  my  father  in  his  chair, 

With  his  two  babes  upon  his  knee, 

While  grandly  on  the  evening  air 
Roll  out  the  strains  of  old  Dundee: 

With  reverent  hearts,  we  happy  boys 
Would  soulful  join  the  strain  divine, 
While  Ocean,  or  Auld  Lyng  Syne, 

Would  swell  the  ocean  of  our  joys. 

And  one  sweet  voice  there  was,  which  rose 

In  tenor  musical  and  clear. 
Such  as  from  harp  seolian  flows ; 

And  evermore  thy  voice  I  hear 
In  cadence  soft'ning  thro'  the  years, 

And  still  I  see  thy  tender  eye, 

Look,  mother,  as  in  years  gone  by, — 
Our  rainbow  in  a  realm  of  tears  ! 


Autumnal  Notes.  349 

There  was  one  more,  whose  deep-toned  bass 
Strengthened  the  music  of  our  choir; 

A  vigorous  form,  of  manly  grace, 

With  laughing  dark  eyes,  like  his  sire : 

He  was  our  buoyant  sailor  boy; 

In  life's  first  spring  he  left  his  home."    .    .    .* 

Thus,  our  family  constituted  a  choir,  and 
each  could  bear  his  part,  with  some  credit  to 
himself,  on  the  scores  of  time  and  melody; 
but  not  infrequently  were  we  re-enforced  from 
the  neighboring  houses.  On  Sabbath  even 
ings,  when  from  the  village  the  preacher  was 
absent,  for  the  behoof  of  neighboring  hamlets, 
and  when  there  was  no  public  service, — or  even 
after  the  people  had  been  dismissed  from 
prayers  at  the  little  meeting-house, — the  several 
families  of  the  neighborhood  would  assemble 
in  one  home,  and  then,  with  the  old  "Vocal 
ist"  open,  Music's  self  would  breathe  and 
speak.  Overhead  shines  the  star,  making  a 
loftier  anthem  in  the  ear  of  him  who  is  well 
pleased  with  listening;  but,  below  the  hum 
ble  roof  it  looks  upon,  our  voices  uttering  a 
heart-language  he  may  esteem  as  sweeter. 

"They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim ; 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs  worthy  of  the  name ; 


•*  Rev.  Burton  W.  Lockhart,  D.  D. 


350  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 

Compared  with  these  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise, 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise." 

Again  the  group  is  gathered.  There  is  the 
aged  grandmother — whose  passion  was  music 
— with  closed  eyes  and  swaying  body,  and 
spirit  blissfully  rocking  in  its  harmonious 
cradle,  chanting,  with  breaking  voice,  when 
at  eighty  years.  Not  sacred  songs  alone  had 
moving  power  with  her;  for  almost  instinct 
ively  her  foot  would  caress  the  floor  at  sound 
of  a  violin,  long  since  she  ceased  to  be  a 
maiden.  Her  ear  was  true  as  the  pitch-pipe. 
Her  peculiarly  effective  rendering  of  the  fune 
real,  yet  sympathetic,  China, — that  score  some 
one  has  declared  fine  enough  for  the  use  of  an 
angel, — lingers  in  memory  still.  Again  I  hear 
the  family  choir  busy  with  the  tenderly-beauti 
ful  lyric  of  Heber,  mingling  the  most  precious 
memory  of  childhood  with  Sharon's  flowery 
region,  and  hallowed  waters  that  "run 
softly," — 

"Siloam's  brook  that  flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God."* 

*  Milton. 


Autumnal  Notes.  351 

While  the  former  things  remain,  and  the 
past  treasures  are  dear  unto  us,  the  words  and 
the  old-time  air  will  not  lose  their  charm ; — 
I  shall  still  hear  them  singing, — 

"By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 
How  fair  the  lily  grows  ! 
How  sweet  the  breath,  beneath  the  hill, 
Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose ! 

Lo !  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 
The  paths  of  peace  have  trod ; 

Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 
Is  upward  drawn  to  God." 

Ah,  when  shall  we  hear  again  that  deep, 
full-hearted  singing,  such  as  now  resounds  in 
my  memory, — that  singing  with  the  passion 
in  it,  and  in  which  the  roused  soul  had  full 
play?  The  heart  of  this  great  world  pulses 
musically,  as  of  old;  but  do  the  sons  of  men 
utter  themselves  in  song  as  spontaneously  as 
in  our  earlier  years, — putting  forth  their 

"Artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide?" 

The  home  has  fallen  into  silence,  almost; 
many  of  the  sweet  singing  voices  have  ceased ; 
the  strains  that  ring  to-night  in  memory  can 


352  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

not  be  heard  there;  the  things  of  music  that 
please  us  best  are  in  the  past ;  we  are  tempted 
to  mingle  discontent  with  gentle  memories,  for 
we  are  never  so  deeply  gratified  in  these  days  of 
organs,  choirs,  conservatories,  trills,  arias,  and 
artistic,  fantastic,  and  self-conscious  singing. 
The  change  and  the  fault  may  be  with  us, 
but  we  are  compelled  to  cry  with  our  poet  of 
Rydal,— 

"Sing  aloud 
Old  Songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart !" 

XIV. 

"Silently  the  shades  of  evening 

Gather  round  my  lowly  door ; 
Silently  they  bring  before  me 
Faces  I  shall  see  no  more. 

O  the  lost,  the  unforgotten, 

Though  the  world  be  oft  forgot ; 

O  the  shrouded  and  the  lonely, 
In  our  hearts  they  perish  not !" 

Come,  my  love,  and  let  us  chase  with  song 
the  shadows  of  this  November  evening ;  let 
us  drown  its  wailing  and  sobbing.  The  Sab 
bath  has  been  vested  as  a  widow  in  her  weeds 
of  sorrow,  and  has  wept  away  the  light,  as 


Autumnal  Notes.  353 

one  who  has  suffered  without  resignation. 
Hark!  the  throbbing  heart  of  autumn — the 
beating  of  the  rain  without,  the  rattle  of  drops 
against  the  window!  Let  us  mingle  with 
the  music  of  the  storm,  like  silken  gold  shot 
through  a  darker  skein,  some  serene  fibers  of 
a  cheerful  human  melody.  This  day  has 
brought  no  weariness,  that  is  born  of  the 
task  incessant ;  but  my  heart,  unvoiced,  is  full 
of  pent-up  ardor — "is  hot  and  restless."  Come, 
let  us  be  seated  at  the  organ,  and  let  the 
breathing  reeds  aid  the  reluctance  of  our  un- 
practiced  voices.  Music  shall  be  a  great  tide, 
like  that  river  of  God  flowing  from  under  the 
throne;  it  shall  be,  as  Jean  Paul  Richter  de 
clared  it,  "a  bridge  over  which  our  chastened 
and  purified  spirits  shall  enter  a  brighter 
world."  Therefore,  come,  my  love,  be  thou 
seated  beside  me,  and  give  to  the  hymns  that 
bear  the  burden,  and  utter  the  aspiration  of  the 
ages,  "the  music  of  thy  voice."  Rarely,  indeed, 
have  we  the  courage,  I  know,  for  what  was 
our  familiar  exercise,  and  our  matin  and  ves 
per  habit.  Yes,  I  know  that  the  sweet  child 
of  our  heart,  in  whom  the  music  dwelt,  lifts 
not  now  her  voice  in  our  hearing,  spontaneous 
as  the  rolling  thrush,  at  fall  of  evening;  yet, 
23 


354  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

let  us  not  therefore  be  silent.  We  have 
cares  and  occupations,  we  have  regrets  and 
sorrows;  but  let  them  not  stifle  song.  Well, 
what  shall  it  be?  With  what  strain  shall  we 
commence  ?  Shall  it  be 

"Sun  of  my  soul  thou  Savior  dear," 
or, 

"Lead  thou,  me  on?" 

No ;  let  us  begin  with — 

"O  Love  divine,  that  stooped  to  share 

Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear !" 

or  with  that  sweet  and  holy  hymn  of  St. 
Bernard, — 

"Jesus,  the  very  thought  of  thee 

With  sweetness  fills  the  breast; 
But  sweeter  far  thy  face  to  see, 
And  in  thy  presence  rest. 

No  voice  can  sing,  no  heart  can  frame, 

Nor  can  the  memory  find 
A  sweeter  sound  than  Jesus'  name, 

The  Savior  of  mankind." 

That  is  good !  Let  us  have  none  but  the 
best.  Here  are  the  strains  our  hearts  delight 
in,  that  stimulate  devotion,  that  awaken  mem 
ory, — these  divine  hymns,  and  the  well-tried, 
sweetly-enduring  airs  that  match  them, — Peter- 
boro  —  Windham  —  Meditation  —  Bolyston 


Autumnal  Notes.  355 

—  Marlowe  —  Dundee !  Ah  !  and  here  is 
Stockwell !  so  we  pause  over  that.  Suddenly 
at  the  close  of  the  second  stanza  the  organ 
ceases,  our  voices  are  silent.  Why  are  tears 
in  thine  eyes,  my  dear  one  ?  What  seest  thou  ? 
What  needs  that  question!  Our  vision  and 
emotion  are  one.  O,  Music!  and  didst  thou 
summon  that  procession  of  the  vanished  ones? 
Didst  thou  turn  their  pale  faces  and  their  ap 
pealing  eyes  so  pathetically  upon  us  ?  Ah ! 
and  do  we  wish  to  forget  them,  who  loved  us 
so  ?  Nay !  Nay !  When  we  forget  them  there 
can  be  no  more  a  remembrance.  "In  our 
hearts  they  perish  not !"  But  we  can  sing  no 
more,  to-night.  Depart,  thou,  heart-awaken 
ing  spirit  of  Melody !  Away !  thou  disquietest 
our  thought  in  vain !  "Thou  speakest  of  the 
things  that  are  not,  and  can  not  be,"  thou 
openest  the  rifled  treasure-box,  and  scatterest 
the  ashes  of  urns  and  the  dust  of  tombs  upon 
us.  Therefore,  for  a  while,  be  silent.  Speak 
to  us  once  more  upon  the  morrow. 

XV. 

A  bit  of  reminiscence.  It  was  on  a  Sabbath 
evening,  during  one  of  my  latest  visits  to  the 
old  home;  my  father  and  I  had  been  abroad 


356  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

together.  We  had  been  in  attendance  at  the 
evening  service,  and  had  returned.  The  horse 
cared  for,  we  came  to  the  house,  and  sat  with 
mother  beside  the  kitchen  fire.  Over  us  had 
been  a  clouded  sky  of  late  October. 

"Keen  fitful  gusts  were  whispering  here  and  there, 
Among  the  bushes,  leafless  half,  and  dry." 

It  was  good  to  stretch  out  our  hands  to  the 
warmth  within,  and  listen  to  the  chill  moodi- 
ness  of  the  wind  that  rustled  in  a  melancholy 
way  about  the  house.  We  sat  conversing  until 
it  grew  late,  when  father  suggested  that  before 
retiring  we  should  sing  a  hymn  together,  as 
had  been  our  wont  in  time  past ;  and  he  imme 
diately  struck  up  the  tune  known  as  Ken 
tucky,  with  the  familiar  evening  hymn  of  John 
Leland : 

"The  day  is  past  and  gone, 

The  evening  shades  appear; 
O  may  we  all  remember  well, 

The  night  of  death  draws  near !" 

The  melancholy  musing  vein  was  one  my 
father  much  indulged,  and  the  sound  of  the 
strain  brought  back  a  host  of  recollections. 
How  often,  in  days  when  their  children  were 


Autumnal  Notes.  357 

all  about  them,  had  that  hymn  been  sung !  We 
had  all  joined  together  then;  but  now  the 
musical  company,  brother,  sister,  all  had  van 
ished  and  departed.  The  vision  of  that  com 
pany,  assembled  "within  the  walls  of  home," 
came  before  me.  I  saw  my  father  and  mother 
grown  aged  and  failing,  and  saw  in  my  pros 
pect  old  graves  and  new,  and  a  house  silent 
and  deserted.  When  we  came  to  the  second 
stanza, — 

"We  lay  our  garments  by 

Upon  our  beds  to  rest ; 
So  death  will  soon  disrobe  us  all 
Of  what  we  've  here  possessed," — 

the  vision  had  overwhelmed  me,  and  my  voice 
was  silent.  In  the  middle  of  the  third  stanza — 

"Lord,  keep  us  safe  this  night, 
Secure  from  all  our  fears," — 

my  mother's  voice  failed,  and  ceased.  I  looked 
up  and  met  her  eyes,  and  read  there  what  is 
unutterable  by  human  lips.  O,  how  pitifully 
sad,  her  face!  Her  eyes  rilled  suddenly  with 
tears,  and  her  lips  quivered.  My  father,  being 
full  of  his  song,  with  his  head  thrown  back, 
kept  on, — 


358  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

"And  when  we  early  rise 

And  view  th'  unwearied  sun," — 

when,  suddenly,  as  missing  our  voices,  he 
checked  himself,  and  looked  upon  us  half  in 
surprise  to  witness  our  emotion ;  then,  catching 
the  infection  of  our  mood,  his  eyes  and  lips  also 
conveyed  the  unspeakable  things  of  the  heart, 
just  for  a  moment.  Then  he  rose  suddenly, 
and  said,  "Let  us  go  to  bed."  The  hymn  was 
left  unfinished.  Never  again  on  earth  did  we 
lift  our  voices  in  song  together.  But  may  I 
not  hope  to  meet  my  father  and  mother  again 
in  that  place  where  hymns  of  God's  children 
are  not  checked  with  tears,  where  the  heart 
bears  no  painful  burden,  and 

"Where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace?" 

There,  perhaps,  we  may  conclude  the  hymn 
with  the  stanza  which  is  my  heart's  fondest 
prayer : 

"And  when  our  days  are  past 
And  we  from  time  remove, 
O  may  we  in  thy  bosom  rest, 
The  bosom  of  thy  love !" 


Autumnal  Notes.  359 

XVI. 

How  singularly, — following  upon  the  ec 
static  incitements  to  musical  expression,  of  the 
Hebrew  psalmist:  "Praise  God  in  his  sanctu 
ary  :  praise  him  in  the  firmament  of  his  power. 
Praise  him  for  his  mighty  acts:  praise  him 
according  to  his  excellent  greatness.  Praise 
him  with  the  sound  of  the  trumpet :  praise  him 
with  the  psaltery  and  harp.  .  .  .  Praise 
him  upon  the  loud  cymbals:  praise  him  upon 
the  high-sounding  cymbals.  Let  every  thing 
that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord !" — comes  such 
a  passage  as  this  from  the  "Confessions  of 
St.  Augustine,"  which  shows  how  deeply  the 
root  of  that  rank  ascetic  weed  had  struck  into 
his  heart:  "Sometimes  I  wish,"  he  says,  "the 
whole  melody  of  sweet  music,  to  which  the 
Psalms  of  David  are  generally  set,  to  be  ban 
ished  from  my  ears  and  that  of  the  Church 
itself."  He  has  the  true  Puritan  desire  to  make 
his  conscience  the  meter  of  the  world,  and  to 
subject  all  differing  natures  to  the  law  he  im 
poses  upon  his  own.  How  singular,  too,  does 
his  statement  seem,  following  the  lyric  of  the 
lilies  and  the  sparrows  and  ravens,  and  the 
hymn  sung  with  His  disciples  before  the  an- 


360  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

guish  of  Gethsemane  and  the  cross ;  following 
the  exhortation  of  the  Chief  Apostle,  who  ex 
horted  his  converts  to  the  use  and  practice  of 
sacred  harmony  :  "Singing  and  making  melody 
in  your  heart  unto  the  Lord;"  following  the 
testimony  of  the  Apocalyptic  Spirit,  and  of  him 
who  "heard  the  voice  as  of  a  great  thunder, 
and  of  harpers  harping  with  their  harps,"  and 
the  "new  song"  which  they  sang  "before  the 
throne."  The  Saint  might  fall  under  suspicion 
of  our  Supreme  Poet,  who  declared : 

"The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  : 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted." 

Yet  Augustine  looked  upon  music,  not  as  his 
aversion,  but  his  temptation.  It  was  a  thing 
of  too  great  delight.  "He  blames  himself,"  as 
Hugh  Black  says,  "for  letting  the  melody 
please  him,  and  is  suspicious  of  the  emotions 
created  by  the  music.  He  calls  it  a  gratifica 
tion  of  the  flesh,  that  he  should  find  more  satis 
faction  in  the  divine  words  when  they  are  sung 
with  a  sweet  and  accomplished  voice  than  in 


Autumnal  Notes.  361 

the  reading  of  the  words  themselves."  A  mas 
ter  of  hymnody  and  a  lover  of  music  has  re 
minded  us  that — 

"We  should  suspect  some  danger  nigh, 
When  we  possess  delight." 

But  must  we  fly  all  things  agreeable,  on  that 
account  ?  Let  us  still  use  ourselves  to  all  things 
fair  and  harmonious,  as  counting  them  inno 
cent,  while  still  we  "watch  and  pray  that  we 
enter  into  no  temptation  to  excess."  Are  there 
no  gardens  but  the  exotic  and  exuberant  ? 

I  would  move  to  the  accomplishment  of  my 
endless  choice  to  the  rhythm  of  a  marching 
melody.  If  there  be  sirens  in  the  course  to 
wreck  my  bark,  there  are  also  angelic  voices 
upon  the  waters,  and  they  will  not  betray  me. 
As  one  has  said  applying  his  words  to  a  lower 
aim, — 

"Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice, 
Then  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swanlike  end, 
Fading  in  music." 

If  a  woman  is  to  be  wooed  with  a  song,  God 
is  so  to  be  worshiped.  I  will  deem,  with  Car- 
lyle,  that  "music  is  a  kind  of  inarticulate,  un 
fathomable  speech  which  leads  us  to  the  edge 


362  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

of  the  infinite,  and  lets  us  for  a  moment  gaze 
on  that."  Or,  with  Kirke  White,  that— 

"Surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent, 

To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife, 
To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent, 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life." 

Or,  with  Addison,  that,  "Music  is  the  only 
sensual  gratification  which  men  may  indulge 
unto  excess  without  injury  to  their  moral  or 
religious  feelings."  Neither  yet  would  I  say 
just  that ;  but  perhaps  might  ask, — What  con 
stitutes  excess  in  the  measure  of  such  an  im 
palpable  thing  as  music?  Can  there  be  an 
excessive  appropriation  of  the  infinite  ''deep 
of  air,"  or  of  the  waters  of  the  crystal  stream  ? 
Nay,  music  need  not  harm  us  by  its  excess; 
for,  as  a  great  preacher*  once  said  happily,  "All 
good  music  is  sacred,  if  heard  sacredly."  We 
regret  to  know  it  degraded  and  profaned,  or 
subject  to  an  evil  spirit.  As  Charles  Wesley 
improvised  and  sung,  when  interrupted  by  a 
military  band  while  preaching  in  the  open  air, 
so  we  adopt  these  words : 

"Listed  into  the  cause  of  sin 

Why  should  a  good  be  evil? 
Music,  alas !  too  long  has  been 
Pressed  to  obey  the  devil. 
*  Beecher. 


Autumnal  Notes.  363 

Drunken,  or  lewd,  or  light,  the  lay 
Flowed  to  the  soul's  undoing, 

Widened  and  strewed  with  flowers  the  way 
Down  to  eternal  ruin." 

But  even  in  this  perversion,  to  the  pure,  music 
continues  pure.  I  have  found  musical  sounds 
of  whatever  kind  a  sedative  to  soothe  and  allay, 
or  a  sweet  excitant  to  exalt  and  ennoble  the 
emotions.  To  the  air  I  furnish  my  own  motive 
and  the  train  of  reflection.  Yet  surest,  divin- 
est,  it  is  when  directed  to  the  highest  aim : 

"Take  my  voice,  and  let  me  sing 
Always,  only,  for  my  King." 

Cecil,  listening  rapt  to  the  music  of  the  organ 
in  church,  touched  by  genius,  with  the  hand  of 
a  master  upon  its  stops  and  keys,  forgets  the 
appropriate  order  of  service,  and  searches 
tremblingly  the  pages  of  his  prayer-book  for 
the  desired  chapter  of  Isaiah.  We  forgive  his 
absent  thought  and  spiritual  agitation;  it  is  a 
confession  of  the  depth  of  the  man's  soul  and 
of  the  power  of  music !  I  see  Milton's  uplifted 
face  as  he  fingers  the  keys  of  his  instrument, 
and  recall  his  words  : 

"I  thence 

Invoke  Thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar.    .    . 


364  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

.    .     .     Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st.     Thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
Dovelike,  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss, 
And  madest  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support." 

And  Bishop  Ken, — our  English  psalmist  of  the 
morning  and  evening  hymns,  if  with  less  of 
poetry,  worships  not  with  an  inferior  devo 
tion, — has  little  fear  of  song.  It  delights  him 
to  reflect  that,  when  he  has  been  translated  to 
the  great  congregation  whose  voices  falter  not, 
the  sons  of  God  on  the  earth  will  still  be  prais 
ing  God  in  strains  which  he  has  given  them. 
So  the  Wesleyan  muse  confesses  to  a  like 
source  of  satisfaction: 

"If  well  I  know  the  tuneful  art 
To  captivate  the  human  heart, 

The  glory,  Lord,  be  thine ! 
A  servant  of  thy  blessed  will, 
I  here  devote  my  utmost  skill 

To  sound  the  praise  divine. 

Thine  own  musician,  Lord,  inspire, 
And  let  my  consecrated  lyre 

Repeat  the  psalmist's  part ; 
His  Son  and  Thine  reveal  in  me, 
And  fill  with  sacred  melody 

The  fibers  of  my  heart." 


Autumnal  Notes.  365 

XVII. 

I  have,  this  morning,  had  a  vision  of  him 
who  sang  of  the  Messiah;  and  as  a  glimpse 
of  his  interior  life  gave  me  cheer,  coming  to 
the  support  of  wavering  resolution,  I  cried 
Amen !  to  the  Being  and  the  Word ;  for  this  is 
ever  the  fount  of  strength,  the  right  arm  of 
power,  that  a  Being  lies  couchant  behind  the 
Word ;  and  not  only  when  a  noble  word  is 
spoken,  or  a  sublime  emotion  musically  en 
shrined,  but  whenever,  not  momentarily,  but 
through  a  whole  career  of  trial,  contempt,  pov 
erty,  neglect,  gainsaying, — 

"A  noble  deed  is  wrought, 

Our  hearts  in  glad  surprise 
To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 

Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares." 

Behold,  in  this  man,  Handel,  another  mem 
orable  instance  of  celestial  treasure,  not  squan 
dered,  but  wisely  husbanded  and  possessed,  for 
mankind's  behoof  and  his  own.  He  had  his 
divine  ideal,  an  unseen  pearl,  behind  a  common 
coat,  and  a  presence  that,  if  not  ordinary,  com 
pelled  no  instant  acceptance.  He,  too,  had  his 


366  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

industries — his  plodding  toil  amid  the  rudi 
ments  of  his  art,  patiently  teaching  his  sphere 
to  roll  out  into  its  place  with  destined  music; 
thus,  as  a  common  man,  he  was  a  seeming 
delver  in  the  ways  of  common  men,  which 
brought  their  wonder  and  their  scorn  that  he 
should  attempt  above  them  and  propose  better 
things  than  they.  He  heard  them  say:  "We 
live  by  bread  and  butter,  and  you  starve,"  and 
he  answered  back,  "Not  only  by  bread, — 

"  'We  live  by  Admiration,  Hope,  and  Love, 
And  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fixed, 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend.'  " 

He  sung,  and  labored  to  deliver  right  the 
melodious  message;  but  England  was  adder- 
deaf  to  him.  The  magnates  heard  only  to 
mock.  They  had  their  concerts,  and  were 
crowded;  he  gave  his  and  seemed  alone;  but 
the  King  was  there, — though  the  courtly 
sneerer  would  not  "intrude  upon  the  privacy 
of  his  sovereign."  It  became  the  fashion  to 
scorn  this  musical  Milton,  till  no  mime-fol 
lower,  puppet,  comic,  or  fool  professional  but 
had  his  jeer  to  fling,  and  must  perish  rather 
than  hold  it.  Twice  was  he  bankrupt ;  oft  was 


Autumnal  Notes.  367 

he  faint,  yet  pursuing;  but  he  had  his  mark 
and  kept  to  it;  "The  Messiah"  was  written, 
and,  when  the  time  ripened,  first  Hibernia,  and 
then  Britain,  was  at  his  feet.  Haydn  cried  out, 
"Handel  is  the  Father  of  us  all !"  Mozart 
makes  response:  "When  he  chooses,  Handel 
strikes  like  a  thunderbolt;"  and  Beethoven 
gives  emphasis,  pointing  to  "the  monarch  of 
the  musical  world,"  and  his  forty  volumes,  with 
the  declaration,  "There — there  is  the  truth!" 
Surely  this  man  must  fail,  the  common  voice 
had  said,  and  events  seemed  assenting  sadly, 
but  God  and  Time  were  on  his  side,  and  were 
found  helping  him ;  under  the  weight  and  pres 
sure  of  grave  or  scornful  opposition  his  music 
grew  within  him,  as  grass  around  a  stone, 
until  the  seeming  last  became  first,  and  his 
triumph  was  wonderful.  He  followed  the 
noble  in  him,  and  the  more  ennobled  it;  and 
his  God  led  him  to  the  goal.  So  has  it  been 
put  by  a  modern  master:* 

"Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 

I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind, 

*Browning. 


368  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

When  sudden — how  think  ye,  the  end  ? 

Did  I  say  'without  friend  ?' 
Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 
With  the  Sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  arm  ran  across 
Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest ; 
Do  you  see?    Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprung  to  his  feet, 
Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed ! 

So  /  was  afraid !" 

This  is  a  man's  glory,  that  sometimes,  in 
stead  of  a  mud  hovel,  he  will  build  himself 
a  tent  from  a  patch  of  God's  infinite  sky,  and 
live  in  it  royally  on  one  of  earth's  crusts  turn 
ing  to  manna  on  his  lips,  till  the  wise  fingers 
of  baser  choosers  cease  from  pointing,  and  his 
beautiful  home  gradually  expands  itself  into 
a  palace  of  crystal,  or  place  of  divine  enter 
tainment  for  coming  multitudes,  and  a  shrine 
and  sanctuary  where  other  like  consecrated 
ones  will  live  entempled.  It  is  by  this,  men  lift 
us,  that  they  are  better  than  their  records  show 
— the  Whittiers  and  Elliotts,  who  rouse  us  with 
lyrical  trumpets,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme  of 
manhood;  that  they  have  a  permanent  some- 


Autumnal  Notes.  369 

thing,  defiant  of  life's  shifting  sand ;  that  they 
are  true  to  their  ideals,  and  hold  their — 

"Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  muse 
When  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert." 

Why  is  it  we  are  so  moved  when  these  men 
speak  to  us  ?  It  is  that  these  were  true ;  no 
wealth,  celebrity,  or  applause  could  be  good 
enough  for  them  to  live  for.  That  Handel  stirs 
our  blood,  when  the  heart  of  the  cathedral 
throbs,  and  the  very  pave-stones  tremble,  as  if 
the  Deity  trod  them,  at  the  breath  of  his 
"Messiah  ;"  that,  when  again  we  hear  the  lofty 
strain  of  Paradise  begin, — 

"Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe :" 

or,  when  we  see  the  awful  minstrel  roll  his 
sightless  orbs  to  heaven,  and  hear  the  cry, — 

"Descend  from  heaven,  Urania !" 

our  souls  are  conscious  of  wings ;  or  that  when 
the  muse  of  Rydal  sings  of  Duty  and  of  Immor 
tality,  we  learn  of  new  powers  within  us,  flows 
from  a  parallel  majesty  of  character  in  them, — 
24 


370  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

a  might  of  manhood,  yea,  of  godhood,  coequal 
with  the  song.  Thus  it  moves  us  the  more  that 
they  live  and  practice  the  nobleness  they  teach 
in  song ;  and  we  are  stirred  by  a  heroic  strain 
of  uniform  character,  a  might  of  personality, 
superbly  beyond  the  dashing  courage  that  wins 
a  battle,  or  the  hungry  tenacity  that  resists  a 
siege.  Then — 

"Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low." 

XVIII. 

Now,  the  flame  of  the  forest  burns  low,  and 
the  "dreamy  magical  light"  of  "the  summer  of 
All  Saints"  has  been  over  us. 

"Now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove." 

A  few  embers  remain ;  all  the  rest  are  ashes. 
The  "carmine  glare,"  and  the  golden  haze, 
that  seemed  neighbors  of  the  sunset,  linger  no 
longer.  Little  birds,  that  cheered  us  of  late, 
sing  no  longer  in  their  green  tents.  They  said 
to  one  another,  "Let  us  go !"  and  the  poet. 


Autumnal  Notes.  371 

bereft  of  song,  is  alone  with  his  musing.  Yet 
some  of  the  feathered  tribes  remain  to  give 
voice  to  the  woods, — but  not  the  jubilant 
voice  of  summer.  The  plaintive  Bob  White 
was  heard  a  little  time  ago ;  and  yet  in  Septem 
ber  there  are  plenty  of  blackbirds,  that,  with 
their  "frequent  notes,"  keep  up  the  music  of 
autumn,  and  with  their  "chatter"  in  "the  field- 
side  wood." 

"Blackbird  and  jay  share  with  the  crafty  crow," 

where  such  as  still  remain  "are  free  to  glean 
upon  the  stubble."  But,  when  the  swallow  has 
gone,  we  breathe  a  sigh  of  regret  with  our 
Canadian  poet  :* 

"In  the  southward  sky 
The  late  swallows  fly, 
The  red  low  willows 

In  the  river  quiver ; 
From  the  beeches  nigh 
Russet  leaves  sail  by, 
The  tawny  billows 

In  the  chill  wind  shiver ; 
The  beech  burs  burst, 

And  the  nuts  down  patter ; 
The  red  squirrels  chatter 
O'er  the  wealth  disperst. 

"Roberts. 


372  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

In  the  keen  late  air 
Is  an  impulse  rare, 

A  sting  like  fire, 

A  desire  past  naming. 
But  the  crisp  mists  rise 

And  my  heart  falls  a-sighing, — 

Sighing,  sighing, 
That  the  sweet  time  dies  !" 

Sweet,  indeed,  to  the  soul  of  the  singer, 
though  sad,  are  those  calm  days  "ere  the  last 
red  leaf  is  whirled  away,"  and  earth  becomes 
drear  under  the  bitter  blast  of  November. 
Lowell  loved  them,  for  the  sake  of  those  "vis 
ionary  tints  the  year  puts  on."  He,  too,  painted 
well 

"The  swamp-oak  with  his  royal  purple,     .     .     . 
The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their  long-hid  gold ;" 

and  showed  us  how 

"The  tangled  blackberry,  crossed  and  recrossed, 

weaves 
A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined  leaves." 

Longfellow  loved  them ;  for  it  was  then  he  saw 
"the  prodigality  of  the  golden  harvest,"  the 
"revelations  of  light,"  when 

"The  leaves  fall,  russet-golden  and  blood-red," 


Autumnal  Notes.  373 

and  heard  "from  far-off  farms  the  sound  of 
flails,  beating  the  triumphal  march  of  Ceres 
through  the  land."  Did  not  Thomas  Buchanan 
Read,  in  his  "Closing  Scene,"  give  us  perfect 
autumnal  pictures  ?  So  loved  them  the  numer 
ous  choir  of  musical  ones  whose  strains  are 
slipping  into  memory. 

We  walk  under  a  shaded  sky  to-day.  The 
wood  is  bereft  of  all  its  brightness.  There  is 
a  hush  in  the  air — a  resonance,  as  of  a  harp- 
string  tensely  drawn.  Whenever  there  is  the 
slightest  motion  in  the  woods,  you  hear  it ;  but 
there  is  not  even  the  call  of  a  crow  or  the  chirr 
of  a  chipmunk.  The  chickadee  has  only  a 
slender  sound  of  cheer.  There  are  symptoms 
that  betoken  gathering  storm.  Now  a  keen 
tinkle  of  the  brooklet  at  a  little  distance,  a 
sharp,  startling  crackle  of  the  trodden  bough, — 
these  are  all  I  hear.  I  pause — listen  to  the 
beating  of  my  own  heart:  there  is  awe  in  the 
sound!  A  leaf  loosens  above  me,  and  falls 
from  bough  to  bough,  with  tiny  rustle.  Hark ! 
I  hear  a  voice !  A  far-away  whisper,  that 
comes  nearer,  as  another  russet  disk  floats  by 
my  ear :  "We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf."  Pick  it  up, 
and  gaze  upon  it.  That  is  the  skeleton  and  the 


374  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

ashen  relic  of  a  man !  "Even  so,"  avers  one  of 
the  wisest  of  our  kind — 

"My  way  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf." 

"That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold, 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  few,  or  none,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 
sang." 

And  so,  re-echoing  the  same,  two  centuries 
later,  we  hearken  to  "poor  proud  Byron," — 
woeful  as  proud,  alas ! 

"My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  fruit  and  flower  of  life  are  gone," 

and,  sad  alternative ! 

"The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone." 

The  same  note  lengthens,  and  the  chord  of 
memory  vibrates  to  the  touch  of  a  Scottish 
minstrel — a  half-forgotten  Psalmody: 

"Behold  the  emblem  of  thy  state 

In  flowers  that  paint  the  field — 
When  chill  the  blast  of  winter  blows, 
Away  the  summer  flies  ; 


Autumnal  Notes.  375 

The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes, 

And  all  their  beauty  dies. 
Nipped  by  the  year  the  forest  fades ; 

And,  shaking  to  the  wind, 
The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 

The  wilderness  behind." 


XIX. 

"Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher." 

— Wordsworth. 

I  have  gone  into  the  orchard,  not  because 
the  fruit  is  ripe,  but  because  the  day  is;  for 
I  know  Hesperia  can  entice  without  golden 
apples.  This  slope,  lazily  overspread  by  trees 
older  than  their  owner,  is  a  living  emerald, 
drinking  light,  and  dips  down  into  the  sunset. 
Afar  and  near, 

"The  day,  with  splendor  old, 
Sinks  through  the  depths  of  gold." 

Birds  house  plentifully  among  these  branches ; 
now  they  are  convivial  and  sociable,  as  they 
flit  from  tree  to  tree,  intercommuning  with 
their  neighbors,  enlivening  me  with  their  chirp 
and  carol.  Thoughts  are  flying  with  their 


376  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

wings  ;  power  creeps  silently  out  of  the  ground ; 
inspirations  drop  from  the  sky ;  fancies  trickle 
in  light  from  leaf-lips,  and  float  mellowly  down 
from  bits  of  cloud,  dream-white;  emotions 
startle  pleasantly  with  the  droning  flight  of  a 
bumble-bee,  or  the  thud  of  a  fallen  apple ;  I 
am  become  the  center  of  a  cluster  of  beneficent 
forces.  This  is  such  a  harvest  as  I  long  to 
reap.  These  mystery-bearing  brains  of  ours — 
uppermost  branches  of  this  sentient  life-tree — 
how  here,  in  such  a  half  solitude,  they  become 
the  natural  resting-places,  or  roosting-places, 
for  ideas  great  and  small,  yet  all  of  them  with 
a  certain  divine  light  upon  their  plumage. 
Here  the  eagle  and  the  wren  harbor  together; 
here  come 

"Truths   that   wake 
To  perish  never;" 

they  come  and  go,  and  return  again,  just  as 
these  birds  do;  nor  are  they  the  exclusive  in 
heritance  or  monopoly  of  any  man ;  you  can 
enslave  them  no  more  than  you  can  enchain  a 
ghost,  or  appropriate  a  shadow.  Plato  and 
Milton  walk  among  these  trees,  and  you  are 
taken  into  a  communion  that  makes  you  master 


Autumnal  Notes.  377 

of  all  they  felt  or  knew.  You  prove  one  divine 
right  of  kings,  the  divine  right  to  ideas ;  they 
are  the  property  of  him  who  can  entertain 
them,  who  can  delight  in  them,  weave  for  them 
a  royal  robe,  or  give  them  a  spacious  guest- 
chamber.  Outwardly  you  may  be  yourself  in 
rags,  but,  if  you  are  inwardly  fit,  they  will  con 
descend  to  you  like  angels,  and  will  walk  with 
you  in  purple.  They  come  down  to  us  from 
afar;  they  seem  to  spring  up  in  us  anew,  but 
they  are  not  as  old  merely  as  Mencius  or  Soc 
rates,  or  the  unnamed  earliest  seer, — these 
thoughts  with  the  gold  of  truth  shot  through 
them ;  they  are  from  eternity,  the  old,  the  new, 
forever  reappearing.  They  are  like  the  grass 
that  smiles  in  green  on  these  green  smiling 
trees  that  spread  leaves  and  shadows.  Is  it 
not  the  grass  of  a  thousand  years  ago?  The 
long-enduring,  haunting  thoughts,  come  they 
not  forth  of  God?  and  are  they  not  rich  in 
treasure  of  the  Infinite  ?  They  are  the  peculiar 
glory  of  the  seer  and  the  artist,  who  stand 
where  the  light  of  Shekinah  falls  upon  them ; 
but  we  who  are  of  the  common  multitude  have 
our  hours  when  we  prize  them  too.  Their  tem 
ple-halls  stand  open  for  winds  more  balmy  with 


378  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

inspiration  than  were  ever  wafted  over  Thes- 
saly  to  blow  through,  and  through  all  their 
chambers  float  echoes  of 

"The  eternal  deep 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind." 

They  come  and  go,  and  return  again,  like  these 
birds.  Who  has  not  felt  the  sudden  accession, 
and  again  desertion,  of  ideas  and  powers ;  the 
inflowing,  the  overflooding  and  entire  posses 
sion  of  the  soul ;  and  then  again,  the 

"Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings," 

as  if  premonitory  of  that  day  when  "desire  shall 
fail  .  .  .  and  those  that  look  out  of  the 
windows  be  darkened,"  or  when 

"Life  and  thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side." 

Never,  never  three  sympathetic  people  shall 
come  together  but  ideas  and  persentiments  shall 
flit  from  brain  to  brain,  like  these  birds  from 
tree  to  tree.  "That  very  thought  occurred  to 
me  just  before  you  uttered  it,"  said  my  com 
panion,  as  we  sat  together  in  the  twilight  here 
yesterday  evening.  Did  poet  or  philosopher 


Autumnal  Notes.  379 

originate  his  ideas  ?  Rather  he  was  en  rap  port  f 
and  they  came  to  him ;  they  settled  on  him  from 
somewhere,  like  birds  on  the  deck  of  a  ship 
in  midocean.  They  came  to  him  who  would 
entertain  them,  who  waited  for  and  drew  them ; 
who  passed  them  through  the  finer  mold  of  his 
brain  and  brought  them  to  forms  of  higher 
delicacy  and  nobler  beauty.  Love  transfused 
them  as  they  passed  the  alembic  of  his  individ 
uality,  and  his  genius  converted  their  dusky 
carbon  into  the  gleaming  and  precious.  But 
the  poet  could  no  more  create  the  least  of  them 
than  he  could  create  a  sun.  We  are  but  the 
treasurers  of  a  brilliant  intellectual  currency, 
and  there  is  a  government  that  will  allow  the 
master  to  open  his  mint  and  put  thereupon  his 
private  stamp  and  superscription ;  but  the  bul 
lion  was  found,  not  made,  and  the  store  can  be 
made  no  greater  than  that  God  hid  in  the  cham 
bers  of  the  rocks.  Beautiful  ideas  !  Inspiring, 
ennobling  ideas!  Ideas  that  feed  me  and  fire 
me,  that  make  a  radiance  of  my  way !  Divine 
ideas !  I  am  glad  that  ye  have  come  to  me ! 
I  will  delight  myself  in  the  sweet,  wholesome 
circulation,  vital  as  the  airs  among  these  trees ; 
or  the  sap  within  them.  I  will  linger  and  wait 
for  you ;  I  will  wash  myself  of  the  sordid  and 


380  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

the  base ;  for  your  sake  I  will  be  passive,  and  I 
will  be  strenuous,  that  all  your  gift  and  gain 
may  flow  to  me.  Yet  I  can  not  but  choose  to 
be  your  willing  slave  and  captive : 

"The  eye — it  can  not  choose  but  see ; 

We  can  not  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 

Against  or  with  our  will. 
Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers 

Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 

In  a  wise  passiveness." 


XX. 

"Life  is — to  wake,  not  sleep, 
Rise,  and  not  rest."  — Browning. 

O  rich  and  precious  decays  of  life,  by  which 
the  soul's  chief  treasure  is  amassed !  how  can 
we  prosper  without  you?  And  why  will  we 
mourn  amid  the  pains  by  which  we  are  en 
dowed?  Do  we  not  grow,  even  as  the  forest 
giants,  increasing  our  substance  with  the  ripe 
result  of  all  fallings  from  us ;  even  by  having 
counted  many  loves  and  hopes  and  aspirings, 
yea,  our  most  valued  product,  dead  and  vain? 
And  is  not  loss,  or  the  shadow  of  it,  the  surest 


Autumnal  Notes.  381 

test  of  true  possession,  and  the  best  harbinger 
of  continuance? 

But  if  the  thought  born  of  the  still  woods 
be  somber,  it  is  also  soothing.  We  recall  the 
beautiful  words  of  Ruskin:  "If  ever,  in  au 
tumn,  a  pensiveness  falls  upon  us  as  the  leaves 
drift  by  in  their  fading,  may  we  not  wisely  look 
up  in  hope  to  their  mighty  monuments?  Be 
hold  how  fair,  how  far  prolonged,  in  arch  and 
aisle,  the  avenues  of  the  valley ;  the  fringes  of 
the  hills !  So  stately — so  eternal ;  the  joy  of 
man,  the  comfort  of  all  living  creatures;  the 
glory  of  the  earth — they  are  but  monuments  of 
those  poor  leaves  that  flit  faintly  past  us  to 
die.  Let  them  not  pass  without  our  under 
standing  their  last  counsel  and  example :  that 
we  also,  careless  of  monument  by  the  grave, 
may  build  it  in  the  world — monument  by  which 
men  may  be  taught  to  remember,  not  where  we 
died,  but  where  we  lived." 

Ah,  well !  We  will  be  admonished.  With 
Beranger  we  will  scatter  the  gold,  in  the  joy  of 
charity,  that  might  build  our  tomb.  The  essen 
tial  "conditions  of  our  being  are  good,  so  we  do 
not  ourselves  vitiate  and  embitter  them.  May 
we  not  still  trust  in  Him  who  gave  the  flower 
ing,  and  with  whom  is  also  the  fading-time? 


382  Pagers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

We  will  accept  our  autumn,  when  it  may  come 
after  an  umvasted  summer.  With  willing 
grace  may  we  sink,  bright  at  our  falling,  as  is 
the  maple  leaf;  or,  as  the  elm  and  the  willow, 
may  we  yield  our  honors  when  the  gathering 
t:me  is  near !  Then,  when  we  are  in  the  clasp 
of  Him  who  never  relaxes,  we  may  hear  him 
say,  "Mistake  me  not !" 

"  'Guess  now  who  holds  thee?'    'Death !'  I  said.    But 

there 

The  silver  answer  rang.     .     .     .     'Not  Death,  but 
Love !' " 

XXI. 
AN  AUTUMN  HYMN. 

Autumn  has  come — sweet  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

Its  feast  of  splendor  satiates  our  eyes; 
Its  saddening  music,  falling  on  the  ear, 

Bids  pensive  musing  in  the  heart  arise. 
Now  earlier  shadows  veil  the  sunset  skies, 

And  the  bright  stars  and  harvest  moon  do  shine ; 
The  woodbine's  blood-red  leaves  the  morn  espies 

Hung  from  the  dripping  elm;  the  yellowing  pine 

And  fading  golden-rod  denote  the  year's  decline. 

The  light  is  mellow  over  all  the  hills ; 

Silence  in  all  the  vales  sits  listening; 
A  holy  hush  the  sky's  great  temple  fills, 

As  if  earth  waited  for  her  spotless  King: 


Autumnal  Notes.  383 

Nor  is  there  want  of  sacred  ministering; — 
The  laden  trees  seem  priests  all  consecrate ; 

The  rustling  cornfields  seem  to  chant  his  praise. 
Surely  man's  thankfulness,  'mid  his  estate, 

A  gladsome  hymn  should  not  forget  to  raise 

To  Him  whose  bounteous  hand  doth  ever  crown 
our  days. 

To  him  be  praise  when  harvest  fields  are  bare, 
And  all  the  sheaves  are  safely  gathered  in ; 

When  merry  threshers  vex  the  sunny  air, 
And  ruddy  apples  crowd  the  scented  bin ! 

Praise  him,  when  from  the  dim  mill's  misty  din, 
In  floury  bags  the  golden  meal  comes  home ; 

And  praise  him  for  the  bread  ye  yet  shall  win, 
When  steaming  horses  plow  the  fertile  loam, 
And  so  prepare  the  way  for  harvests  yet  to  come. 

Praise  him,  when  round  the  fireside,  sparkling  clear. 

The  household  group  at  evening  smiling  meet ! 
To  him  whose  goodness  crowns  the  circling  year 

Lift  up  the  choral  hymn  in  accents  sweet; 
The  comeliness  of  song  lift  to  his  seat 

Who  from  his  palace  of  eternal  praise 
His  earth-born  children  hears  their  joys  repeat, 

Nor  answer  to  their  thankfulness  delays, 

But  more  their  grateful  love  with  blessing  new 
repays. 

Our  chasten'd  hearts  shall  hunger  not  for  gold ; — 
Enough  the  splendor  of  these  sunset  skies ; 

The  scarlet  pomp  from  maple  bough  unrolled, — 
The  high-built  woods'  resplendent  fantasies : 


384  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

Ah,  think !  if  these  no  more  could  win  thine  eyes, — 
Nor  earth,  nor  sky,  nor  the  majestic  sea ; — 

If  Love  were  gone — that  jewel  mortals  prize, — 
With  all  that  makes  the  soul's  felicity, 
What  then  were  gems  and  gold,  O  famish'd  one ! 
to  thee ! 

Not  bread,  that  strengthened  the  heart  of  man— 
For  this  be  praise ! — alone  our  Father  gives ; 

More  provident,  the  heavenly  Husbandman 
Gives  that  diviner  food  by  which  man  lives : 

Not  gladdening  wine  alone  the  heart  receives, 
Nor  oil,  which  makes  his  mortal  face  to  shine  ; 

Like  autumn  rain  from  dripping  cottage  eaves, 
He  gives  the  thirsty  soul  a  draught  divine : 
Come!  lay  your  thankful  sheaves,  firstfruits 
upon  His  shrine ! 


(H  6ood  Wish  for  ]^y  Reader.) 


thee,  brother!    May  he  give 

Softly  the  treasure  of  the  years 
Into  thy  bosom;  make  thee  live 

The  life  that  knows  and  sees  and  hears 
The  brightest,  fairest,  of  the  earth  — 

The  certainties  of  hope  and  time, 
Till  that  supreme,  immortal  birth 

Wherein  the  soul  shall  reach  her  prime;- 
Give  thee  his  patience,  kindness,  truth, 

His  wondrous,  sacrificing  love; 
The  stainless  innocence  of  youth, 

The  gentleness  of  lamb  and  dove. 

And  when  to  thine  Emmaus  dim 

Thou  goest  sadly,  droo  ping-eyed, 
O  may  the  hallowed  feet  of  him 

Come  after,  in  the  eventide, 
And  join  thee  in  the  way,  and  make 

Thy  heart  within  thee  glow  and  burn, 
And  then  to  be  his  guest  thee  take;  — 

Soon  to  a  shape  of  glory  turn 
And  vanish:  may  thy  sorrow  still 

Be  comforted;  thy  labor  blest; 
And  may  his  peace  thy  bosom  fill, 

When  thou  shalt  enter  to  his  rest. 

25  385 


386  Papers  of  Pastor  Felix. 

God  give  thee  many  a  sunset  store 

Of  poet  fancies, — golden  things! 
Sweet,  simple  songs,  croon'd  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  many  bright  imaginings; 
With  music  thee  exalt  above 

All  sense  of  care,  on  Rapture's  wing, 
And  make  thee  yearn,  and  bid  thee  love, 

Where  Handel  and  Beethoven  sing: 
Give  thee  a  fireside  nook; — the  field 

Besprent  with  June's  fresh  largess  o'er; 
The  comfort  brooks  and  gardens  yield; 

The  uplift  of  the  hills;  the  lore 
Of  Ocean,  and  the  Bards; — the  smile 

Of  wife  and  child  and  friends,  at  even; — 
Rest  and  refreshment,  after  toil; 

And,  after  Earth  and  Time — then,  Heaven! 


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